Days
by Neon Daisies
Summary: Sands had a family that he left behind in order to go play spy. He's lost a lot, but has he discovered all his losses? Or are the poets wrong and you really can go back home again?
1. Prologue

Not for the first time, I wonder what the hell I was thinking. This isn't exactly how had I imaged my life would be. Not at all. On days like this – when I come home from a grueling day of work to lock myself away in my bedroom with the curtains pulled and a cold compress on my forehead to beat back the heat of a migraine – I can't help but be a little bitter.

Who am I? No one of consequence, or at least that's what I feel people have tried to get me to believe. Sometimes I know what a load that is. Other days I just want to sit back with a Cosmo and tell the world to go –

Never mind. Some days my language is just…

_I have to stop doing that,_ I tell myself sternly. I use the phrase "someday" much too often. Probably because I don't measure time by minutes or hours any more. Just days. Days until the weekend. Days until the kids' science project, or English paper, or math homework is due. Days until Christmas break. How many shopping days _until_ Christmas. Days to spring break. Days to summer break. Days until school starts again and I know that my son and daughter are once again occupied. Days until the bills absolutely have to be paid. Days until "that" time of month. Days since I'd last called Washington for news of my husband.

It's been twenty-eight. I'll call on Thursday. And like always, they'll do their best… Actually, since I call with such punctuality I'm beginning to think the task of dissembling the non-information they've given me falls to the same person every time. Anyway, they'll do their best to convince me that I have no need to worry.

Yeah right. After 2,035 days, I know better. About one thousand days ago I tried to at least get them to ship him the divorce papers that were waiting his signature –

His signature? I snort and slowly get up from the bed to change out of my work clothes. First he was going to have to get over the shock of getting them – as if he was ever going to be shocked by something I've had the nerve to do – before he could sign them. Anyway, his bosses never sent the papers, and that's another thing I bring up with them on the eighth of every month.

The front door slams and I wince. That would be Chris. God, he looks like his father. Has his temper at times too. Decently dressed, I stick my head into the hallway as he comes stomping up the stairs. "What homework do you have today?" He mumbles something about it not being any of my business and I sigh. So it was going to be one of _those_ days. Was it really only Monday?

With nothing but weary duty spurring me on, I remind him that it's his own fault that he's on academic probation.

"Damnit, Mom –"

I cut him off before he can continue to curse, ground him for a week, and get a mutinous accounting of his homework before he manages to slam the door of his inner sanctum. He turns his rock on loud and I sigh as the beat of some angry punk band takes over the rhythm of my throbbing head.

Amanda is the next up the stairs, and she also favors her father, although at ten she hasn't hit her adolescent best yet as fifteen-year-old Chris has.

"Hello, sweetie. How was your day at school?" She tells me that her glasses got broken on the playground and she thinks she managed to throw her retainer away with her lunch. I assure her that it's alright – even though it's not, according to my budget – and ask her to try to find her spare glasses.

_That's another thing I count,_ I think glumly as I return to my room. The days until my paycheck and what I can only think of as alimony arrives. It shouldn't be enough, but it always is. The money that is. I never bargained to be a single parent.

No, I wanted to be a lawyer. I wanted to specialize in children's advocacy. I suppose that's what got me in trouble in part. I was taking a course in psychological development as part of my degree, and that's where I met him. He was the guy in the back of the class who never paid any attention but always managed to get perfect grades. He annoyed me, mainly because I'd been able to do that in high school. College was different though.

Until we were partnered up for an assignment, I managed to avoid him. He was just too…and that smirk on his face was just so…and I just wanted…

Anyway, we were partnered up. I don't remember the assignment now. It _was_ almost twenty years ago. I remember that I finished my half of the assignment almost the same day I got it. But _he_…he loitered. I remember my irritation as I would nag him before class about what he'd gotten done, and after about making sure that he finished. And in between those times he'd sit in the back of the class and stare at the back of my head, that infuriating smirk on his face.

He got his part of the research to me three days before our project was due, and even joined me on the two all-nighters it took to get everything done. That had been a surprise. He'd always struck me as the kind of guy who'd always managed to get the perfectionist lab partner in school and then depended on their obsessive need for good grades to get him the grade too.

I was right about that much, I learned later. Our little talks before and after class didn't stop after the project was done, or after the term had ended. They eventually evolved into lunch dates, library dates, dinner dates…

It was in the late spring of my junior year that I discovered I was pregnant. I don't know why I was so surprised. We'd been sleeping together for nearly a year by that point. And not just sleeping together, but renting-an-apartment-off-campus-together sleeping together. He was close to graduating, and we waited until after he had before getting married in a small ceremony.

Everything seemed magical…at least for a few years. I dropped my classes a semester short of graduation and he got a job. At first he was always home, but soon after we had Amanda, he started to travel more. And for longer. When she was three, we were down to seeing him just a handful of days a month, and I couldn't help but ask him to ask his bosses to cut back the amount of time he was away. I knew it'd mean less money, but the kids were getting old enough that I could get a part time job…

No use. A few months later he moved us to Virginia. Less than a year after that, I was pacing as he packed two suitcases.

"CIA?" I asked again, so furious that I wasn't able to absorb what he was telling me. "How long –"

"I've told you this, Liz." The way he could always sound so calm just added to my fury. This was not a time to be calm.

"They're sending you away?" Even now the anguish that had been in my voice made me shudder.

"Yes. And no, I can't tell you where. It's for your own good. For the kids' own good."

"Bullshit," I growled, right before he twirled me into his arms as I made another circuit of the room.

"It's not forever, Lizzie."

"You don't know that. You already said you didn't know how long you'd been gone."

He'd promised he'd write.

He'd promised I could write as long as the letters went through his bosses.

He'd promised enough money would be sent home to support us.

He'd promised it wouldn't be forever.

I sigh and go downstairs to start dinner. We still eat as a family, even though we're missing him.

The letters had stopped after a few months.

The money had ceased to be enough. I work as a law clerk now to make ends meet.

Chris is angry with a father who has been gone too long.

If it wasn't for photographs, Amanda wouldn't remember his face.

The nights are long, cold, and lonely.

Perhaps it wasn't forever, but 2,035 days is a long time.

I don't feel like making much tonight, so I heat up some boxed macaroni and cheese while I fry up some leftover ham. We still have some bagged salad and fresh blueberries left over from the weekend. That should be a decent enough meal.

Before I can call the kids down, the phone rings. I wonder if my car payment ever made it to the dealership. I'm in trouble if it didn't.

"Hello?" My voice is dull, even in my own ears.

"Mrs. Sands?"

I blink in surprise and check the date again. Had I missed the 8th, so now they were calling out of concern? _No…it's still Monday. _

"Is this Mrs. Sands?"

"Yes. Yes, sorry." Without my knowledge, my hand goes white-knuckled on the receiver. "This is Mrs. Sands."

"Mrs. Sands, if you see your husband, please contact us immediately."

"What? What do you mean?" The concept that my husband might just drop in out of the blue was a hard one to grasp. Harder than the one about him leaving for parts unknown.

There's a sigh. "He checked himself out of the hospital without informing anyone here at HQ. Please just let us know."

"Of course –" They hang up, so I do also. Just as well. I think I'm in shock.

He'd been in the hospital.

He'd been close enough that his employers thought he might come here.

_When did this happen? How long has he been back? Why didn't anyone tell me? _

I get over it. I'm here, my husband still is not. Just like he hasn't been for five years. And I still have kids to feed, chores to do, and notes to transcribe.

Halfway through dinner there's a knock on the door and I go to answer it. If I send one of the kids and it's one of their friends, I'll never get them back and the heating bill will go up as they try to heat the great outdoors.

I open the door…

…

…

…

"Hey, Lizzie. Mind if I come in?"

* * *

**Author's Note: **don't be expecting more, because I don't think there is any. But their might be. This was born of frustration with a few scenes that wouldn't leave my head, and I've still got a few more left. But this is not a priority for me. : P Just consider this a Christmas present. 


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: **Everything here that is from OUATIM or to whom I attribute credit, belongs to the respective owners. Liz, Amanda, and Chris belong to me.

**Author's Note: **well, the reviewers have spoken and here we go. A chapter. We'll call my original vignette a prologue and this chapter one. Of course, now I'll be expecting all sorts of encouragements to continue. So don't hold back on me here. Any and all constructive criticisms are welcome, especially if this is reminding you of anything else because I'm almost neurotically convinced that I'm being a little _too_ inspired by another story. But if none of you can figure it out, perhaps I'll tell you at the end of the next chapter. Or possibly the story. Now go read.

* * *

Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, officer of the United States Central Intelligence Agency and sometime turncoat, bit back a groan as the taxi he was in went over another man-eating pothole at full speed. The headache that'd been his constant companion since the blinding – _Ha-ha, that's a good one_ – pain in his eye sockets had dulled was raging once again. _Kinda like that bull at the bull ring, except now I'm the matador and not the bull and I'm slipping again._

His concentration had been a joke for awhile now. _Probably a side effect of having one's eyes ripped out._ The thought was totally and completely unfunny, but the corners of his mouth quirked up anyway as he leaned his head back on the headrest and started to take deep breaths through his mouth. The headache was getting to his stomach. At least by concentrating on not making a fool of himself he was keeping from thinking about the events that had led up to his traveling to a place that had once been home in a vehicle that had probably had shocks at some point in the far distant past.

A month of recovery simply wasn't enough. He was bone-weary from travel, he ached in places he didn't have anymore, he couldn't concentrate to save his life, and he couldn't see. Apparently having one's eyes ripped out was something the body objected to. And what was he doing instead of laying in a nice warm – if uncomfortable – hospital bed, making the nurses whirl about him like an RC car in the hands of a ADHD kid on crack? Running. He hated running even when he was in complete control of things and running was for the good of his master plan. He didn't have a master plan though, and he was at a distinct disadvantage at the moment since he hadn't bothered to get in touch with anything that wasn't happening in or around his hospital room.

The guards – _Ha, "guards." Right. Armed MPs._ – shouldn't have been a surprise. He had always been one to keep a sharp eye – _"Had" being the key word. – _on what was happening around him. But even that had never been enough. No smoke without fire. Rumors were usually sparked by something, and in his world, it paid to pay attention to rumors. Especially if the rumors were that officers in key operations were falling like flies at crucial times. And not the lazy, never-stick-their-heads-out-of-their-foxhole officers who could be caught off guard by a bull in a china shop. _Why do I keep thinking about bulls?_ No, the ones going down were the ones that hedged all bets. Every exit covered, every contingency considered.

Officers like him.

The rumors named a few mucky-mucks that could be behind the government approved stings, but Sands had discarded most of them. Anyone still running though Agency channels wouldn't take these kinds of risks. All the other thick as thieves mucky-mucks would reign them in. It was Sands' theory that whoever was behind the deaths of agents in over a dozen countries around the world was –

"Hey, buddy. This is it. That'll be $110 even."

One gloved hand came up as Sands unsuccessfully fought the urge to rub his brow. He didn't actually have any money. That was one of the unfortunate things about having to run from the law without any prior warning; people tended to forget important things like money. _Or a toothbrush._

"My wife," the word was strange in his mouth, "will pay you."

There was a grunt of acknowledgement from the cabbie. Sands took that as a blessing to get the hell out of the man's car. There was just one problem with that…he couldn't see how close to the curb they were. Or if there was a fire hydrant nearby. Or any pedestrians. Or any of the thousand other previously unseen hazards of suburbia that now plagued his life.

With an intense feeling of mixed humiliation and hate, Sands dug the collapsible cane he'd insisted on out of his pocket. He extended it, then opened his door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

_The part I hate about this the worst is –_ Sands stopped himself before he could say that the worst part was the constant feeling of fear he felt each time he took a step he couldn't see. Instead he swept the cane to and fro in the prescribed manner and searched for one of the brick lamppost thingys that marked the entrances to the townhouses on this block. _They're to the right of the stairs, and have the addresses in bronze numbers…Ah-ha._ He quickly ran his fingers over the numbers. _3485…that's one house too far to the right._ With a bit more confidence, he turned to his left and set out for what had been the front door of his house.

Without the cane he wouldn't have been able to navigate past the assorted clutter on the stairs to the door. The urge to put everything away or throw it away was strong, but he ignored that one too. None of this stuff was his anymore, and he wouldn't be here long enough to care about it.

At the top of the steps he collapsed his cane again and stuck it back into his pocket. Things were better this way. He only needed a place to stay for the night and knew that Liz would be so shocked at his sudden appearance that he'd have at least overnight to get some sleep and some food before taking off again in the morning.

Sands yawned as he waited for someone to come answer the door.

The sound of locks – more locks than he remembered – being undone made him straighten and caused a dry smile to come to his lips. That was Lizzie…always cautious.

There was a soft creak as the door opened, and a soft gasp. _Well, I think it's safe to say that she still recognizes me._

He knew she was standing there, her mouth slightly agape as it had been when he'd suggested they get married, and again when he'd told her that he was not a psychiatric consultant but instead an officer of the CIA. _Or at least,_ he thought with bitter irony, _that's what I think she looks like._ It was her perfume that gave it away that it was her at the door. She hadn't changed it in the five years he'd been gone. He'd given Liz her first bottle as an anniversary present.

_Enough chitchat. Get to the point._ Duly prodded, Sands smile turned sardonic. "Hey, Lizzie. Mind if I come in?"

* * *

There's a silence long enough to make me think that she's passed out – except I can hear her breathing – and then the soft shuffling of feet. Lizzie doesn't say a single word to me. Nothing. No "Welcome home." No "Where on earth have you been, I've been so worried about you." No angry accusations, no decrees for me to get out of her house – for that is what this place has become – no tears, cheers, or jeers, and no questions. Just that soft shuffling of her feet as she moves back from the door to let me in.

I don't know what I was expecting, but this certainly wasn't it. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps this isn't Lizzie after all. _Better check. _

"Lizzie?" I step into the house and hope that the searching, cautious tone in my voice is taken as concern for her state of mind. But hell, the worst that can happen is that A) this is Amanda, and B) that it's Liz and she's already heard about what happened in Mexico.

"Sheldon?"

It's ridiculous how my confidence can be restored with no more than a puff of air that sounds vaguely like my name. But that's all it's taking at the moment. I was right. Even after five years I still know my own wife, even without seeing her. _And there goes what triumph I had,_ I think, bitterness now hiding behind the fake smile on my lips. Or perhaps the bitterness made the smile go sour. For a second I think I was happy to hear her voice. That's ridiculousness in itself. After all this time I can't imagine that she'd be happy to see me.

A grating honk from the street jolts me back into the present, something that's happened more in these last nightmarish two days than in the past month. The jolt always helps me to regain my composure though, and for that I'm grateful.

"I think he wants to be paid," I drawl as I head upstairs. Something's been cooking and I'm hungry.

There's nothing but silence behind me as I ascend the stairs. That's a little surprising. The Liz of old would have told me off and had me outside paying the cabbie myself before I could even consider taking the words back. Now all I hear is the front door closing; she's not following me up the stairs and demanding an explanation. Goes to show I'm not the only one who's changed, I suppose. I wonder if she's changed on the outside. Not physically…that's inevitable…but in some way that would clue the seeing world in on her altered state. My mother would say – if such a thing could be seen – that it would be something "about the eyes." Good thing I don't have eyes anymore, because I think that Liz would throw me out on my tail – I can just see all the shirts and pants of mine that are still lying around as they fly through the air to land on the sidewalk, accompanied by her curses – but there I go again. Really, man can't live on irony alone. Is that macaroni and cheese I smell? It's not puerco pibil, but it'll do in a pinch –

"Daddy!"

* * *

The only warning Sands had of the enthusiastic greeting coming his way was the hasty groan of a heavy chair against a linoleum floor. And even then he only had enough time to brace himself before a small body launched itself into his midsection, small arms going around his lower chest. He grunted, and reached down to grip the thin arms reflexively in an automatic attempt to keep them both from tumbling to the floor.

"Daddy," Amanda continued, not appearing to notice the look of surprise and shock that'd overtaken Sands' face. "Chris said you were never going to come home, but I said you would, and he bet me ten dollars that you wouldn't, and now I'll buy some tickets and we can go see 'The Swan Princess' together, and we'll –"

"He's not staying, brat." Chris' militant voice came from the kitchen table. "Maybe you don't remember, but I do. He always promises to change, to be around more, but he never stays."

"Nuh-uh!" Amanda's arms tightened around her father's waist as she defended him. "You don't know anything. You're just a fart-head."

Chris rolled his eyes. "And you're a delusional cry-baby."

Amanda turned to her father. "Daddy," she whined.

This only caused her brother to laugh at her unkindly. "He doesn't care, brat. He's just a bastard who donated his –"

"Christopher Ryan." Liz's voice sounded almost as tired as Sands felt. And a hundred times more disappointed. "What have I told you about cursing?" Sands could almost see her soft voice float across the room to twine around the boy's shoulders.

"Mom –"

"Not to mention that I've taught you better than to speak so disrespectfully of or to any adult, especially your parents." Her voice-rope tightened.

"He's not anyone's father!"

"Christopher –"

"And I know you think the same thing! I've heard you say it when you thought we weren't listening."

There was absolute silence in the room as mother and son faced each other down. Rebellious youth didn't roll over any more than world-weary and responsibility ridden age did.

"Go to your room, Chris."

"That's not fair!"

"Chris…" There was a clear warning note in Liz's voice. It was the sound of a mother who was about to be pushed past her control, and from experience, the boy knew better than to keep protesting. That didn't mean he was going to employ any kind of grace though.

"Screw you," he muttered, getting up from the table. "I can't believe you let that fuc-"

At some point Amanda had gravitated away from her father and to her mother's side. Unencumbered, Sands moved the two steps it took him to be able to reach out and grab Chris' arm in a tight grip.

"Let me go!"

"Sheldon…"

Chris' defiance and Liz's weariness melted into a single mournful note that Sands ignored. He simply tightened his grip and hauled the boy closer to him.

"Hate me all you want," he told his son. "But you're going to respect your mother."

"Like you did?"

The words were a challenge and it was all Sands could do to remember he was talking to a boy and not someone he could attack, whether it be with fists or blazing guns. If the words weren't a stark reminder of having not only abandoned of his family, but of cheating on his wife as well, there wouldn't have been a problem. But there were those reminders, and something about breathing the air of what had once been his home returned something of his old morals and his old conscience to him. So all he did was grit his teeth and mutter curses in his head before saying, "If she's been putting up with your attitude for long, then she more than deserves your respect, because you're being an asshole."

"Sheldon!"

Sands let go of his son and listened to his quick retreat up the stairs as he turned to his once-upon-a-time wife. "What did you want me to do, Lizzie? If he doesn't hear the truth about how he's acting from someone, how do you expect him to recognize it himself?"

"I don't think you have a high enough platform to be standing on to be preaching such things!" Liz felt like she wanted to cry.

"Listen, Lizzie. It was just one asshole to another, alright?"

"Mommy, why does Daddy keep saying the A-word? I thought you didn't like it."

_Oh my god, Mandy's still here._ Liz closed her eyes. "Amanda, honey? Will you please go up to your room so I can talk to your father?"

Amanda scuffed the floor and covertly examined said man. She wanted to stay down here and talk with him. Find out if he was really going to stay or not. "But I'm not done with dinner."

"You can take it up with you. Just please go upstairs."

The girl nodded and retrieved her meal. At some point during their discussion, Sands had gotten a fork and was eating what was left of the macaroni and cheese straight out of the pan. Carefully she walked around the table and came up to his side. "_I'm_ glad you're home, Daddy," she declared, hugging him and softly kissing his cheek.

Liz watched with some satisfaction as a fleeting look of guilt passed over her husband's face. It happened so fast that she never would have seen it if she hadn't been watching for it, but she had been. She wanted to see if any trace of her husband remained. And not out of some need to resurrect him and accept him back into her home and her bed, but because she _wanted_ him to feel guilty. He'd abandoned her, damnit, and she wanted her pound of flesh.

And she wasn't going to ask why he was still wearing his sunglasses. She wasn't going to be curious about things like that. That was nothing when compared to knowing why he'd stopped writing.

She didn't get answers or explanations though. She didn't even get excuses. All she got was silence as Sands ate what food was within easy reach. And when he was done with that, she watched as he meandered over to the fridge and drank milk from the carton. And she watched as he went upstairs without a word.

And she wondered how things had ever come to this. And if they would ever change.

And if she should call back the number she'd memorized with so many dialings and tell the person at the other end that he was in her home.

In the end she started to clean up the dirty dishes from dinner. It was late and she was tired, not to mention overwhelmed by the events of the day and particularly the evening. Dishes, glasses, silverware, pots…they all went into the dishwasher. Normally she'd wash the pots by hand to save water since she could get a bigger load done when she reserved the dishwasher for _dishes_, but she couldn't even contemplate spending another ten minutes on her feet.

_Milk goes back into the fridge, butter gets covered, cat goes out…_

After completing her nighttime chores, Liz trudged upstairs, collecting toys as she went. It was only eight – bedtimes for the rest of the household wouldn't roll around for another thirty minutes at least – but she had to go to bed. Mandy was working on her homework, Chris was sulking.

"Good-night, Chris."

"Whatever," he muttered.

Liz left him to his sulking – at this point in time it was probably her best bet – and crossed the hall to her room, only to stop dead in her tracks.

Sands was in her bed.

* * *

The sense of invasion I felt was almost outrageous. Even though I never truly got used to having that entire bed to myself – there was always a phantom of his body there that would wake me in the middle of the night, more from the physical absence than a lingering presence – part of me rebelled against the thought of sharing space with him. This was _my_ space, my escape. My refuge. And he was encroaching on that. Especially since it's him I need refuge from. Even a sleeping Sheldon is an intimidating figure; a large black spot on my worn sheets. Sheets still smelling like detergent and fabric softener...once an open invitation. Now it's no more than a recipe for disaster, or at least personal humiliation should the me of old and the he of old emerge.

I need time – time and space – to think about all this, and I am going to have it _here._ In _my_ room. If he wants to sleep, he can do it on the couch.

"Sheldon." My voice is stern, but not overly loud. Unless you're a drill sergeant, being loud isn't always an advantage. Unfortunately, Sheldon doesn't seem to be the light sleeper that he used to be.

"Sheldon," I try again, walking to the side of the bed. Since he's still not responding to me, I reach out and gently shake his arm –

"Uhn!" I find myself flat on my back, staring up into my husband's…sunglasses…his hand around my throat and his thumb pushing my head back painfully. Somehow he'd managed to drag me across his body; my back is pressed against the bed, my legs are draped over his hip so that my feet don't touch the floor, and his face is only inches from mine.

I say nothing. I _can't_ say anything. The look on this face that used to be so familiar – _loved_ – is chilling. If I didn't know better – _Do I know better anymore? –_ I'd say that he hates me. But what on earth could I have done to make him hate me? This man that I don't even know.

"Sh-sheldon?" My tongue is rubbery and clumsy in my mouth, but he's starting to hurt me. And to scare me. Badly.

The question must have made some kind of impact though, because the emotion on his face is replaced with fleeting confusion and then blankness. His hand eases on my throat and I can lower my head; I notice he doesn't actually stop touching me. I also notice that his hand is warm and heavy on my skin….

"Lizzie?" His voice is harsh in a growling sort of way, but it holds as many questions as mine did before.

"Yeah." I swallow, then ask a question that I have no business asking what with the years of distance between us. But I have to ask it or go mad it seems. So I do, and I hold my breath and count my lucky stars as I do.

"What happened?"

* * *

_ Why are you home? And why now? What drove you to come here? Why did you just do that to me? _

Sands knew that those questions were really what she was asking through her simpler one, along with _Who are you?_ But he had no answers for her, and the temptation to simply fall into a behavioral pattern that he recognized was no longer his was strong. Being home – in a place that was once home – seemed to shine a glaring spotlight on everything he'd become that she didn't know of. His work in Mexico had made him go power-mad – after all, who was around to rein him in or reprimand him? There was no one to call him on the carpet, no one fast enough to catch him, and no one to stare in censure at him across the dinner table. He wasn't the man she'd known anymore, and while _he_ was realizing that more and more with every exchange of dialog, she hadn't seen it yet. And he was still enough of his old self to know that he didn't _want_ her to see it.

So, he could answer all her questions after all, but he had no intention on doing so. Especially not the last one; not when there wasn't any point in it.

He wasn't staying.

He wasn't coming back.

And the answers he had would only hurt her; and he remembered the love he'd once had for her, and he held his tongue for the sake of "the good old days."

Sands suddenly drew his hand away from her neck, checking the fit of his sunglasses in what was quickly becoming a nervous habit. "I'll sleep on the couch."

Before she could react – which was _always_ the best time _to_ act – he was off the bed and halfway across the room.

"No, you don't have to – I mean…"

He paused and shook his head. Liz always got flustered when he just _did_ things. He remembered that he'd once thought the reaction was cute. Sexy even. Now all he felt was…nostalgia…and a vague irritation like she was using precious seconds that he wasn't going to get back. As if he was running out of them.

_Which is ridiculous,_ he told himself. _If I've gotten to this point, I'm relatively certain I must be harder to kill than even **I** could ever have imagined._

But Liz didn't know the direction of his thoughts, and she didn't understand why he didn't at least turn to face her as she tried to speak to him, and her ignorance made her more miserable than she'd felt in awhile.

"You've been gone for so long," she whispered. "I…"

"You what, Lizzie? You want to confess to me that you've been unfaithful if not physically or in you mind, than at the very least you've been unfaithful to the memory of us?" There was a good deal more venom in his words than he intended, but then Sands didn't have the best ear for such things anymore. "If that's the case, I not only absolve you, but I understand. To tell the truth I don't believe I harbored any beliefs that I'd find you here waiting for me without the mark of another man on you." Oh, yes he had. At least at first. At first he'd held tight to the belief that he'd be home by the end of the year and that he could then turn his attention to other pursuits within the Company. But things had gotten more complicated, and he'd loved her enough then to keep from writing for the possible dangers, but he'd never considered the danger that not hearing from her or thinking of her would hold for _them_. "And lest you get the wrong impression now, I have no intention of staying here and messing with the flow of your household. I promise to be gone by the time you get back from work tomorrow, and that you'll never have to see me again."

He would have left then, but a thought occurred to him in the doorway. "If you have a set of the divorce papers on hand, I'll sign them before I leave." And it was with that promise that Sands unknowingly left his silently crying wife on her bed, alone and crushed, for she at least had held hope that the knowledge of such papers would at least bring him to her so that they could try again.

* * *

It was sometime in the night that the men dressed in black came up to the house and cut the power and phone lines. They wanted their quarry, and they wanted it contained. Some of this "hunter's drive" must have tainted the air inside the house because Sands knew from the instant before he became fully awake that he'd overstayed his welcome. He had no way to tell what time it was – if it was morning or if it was still dark out – or how many hunters had come to flush him out of what he'd thought was a safe house, but he had no doubt that they were there and that he had to leave _now_.

The sound of two sets of thumping and bumbling footsteps on the stairs sent Sands to his feet and his hands to the two small guns he'd managed to hide on his body. But he didn't draw them since even halfway capable officers knew how to keep their footsteps silent, and even with the poor example of fatherhood that he was, he wasn't about to shoot one of his own children or scare them to death.

"Daddy! You're still here!" One set of footsteps broke off in a scampering run in his direction while the other heavily continued into the kitchen. Prepared now for Mandy's unprejudiced greeting, Sands returned her hug lightly, taking this last moment to marvel at how big she'd gotten. His baby girl…

_Who'll be better off without me._

"Where's your mother?" he asked, letting her go.

"Asleep still. Chris and I are lucky she insisted we have batteries in our alarm clocks just in case, otherwise we would have overslept –"

"Why?"

"Why what, Daddy?"

He heard the wistfulness in her voice, but Sands didn't have time to oblige her. "Why is your mother still asleep?"

"Today's her day to go into work late. She always sleeps in and makes us take the bus."

"When does your bus come?"

"In a few minutes. Will you be here when we get home from school, Daddy?"

"Maybe," he murmured, figuring that the only reason the house hadn't been raided yet was that the kids were still here. Almost – _almost_ – he was selfish enough to keep them here, but just as selfishly he wanted to remember his daughter's delight if all of this didn't turn out well.

Amanda seemed to catch his mood because she hugged him again and left without another word. Arguments broke out in the kitchen, grew, and calmed, and Sands remembered that he didn't have much time. There was no way that he was going to jail for something he didn't do. There were enough things to convict him and put him away for life that were rightfully his. He wasn't about to be anyone's fall guy. No, if he went to prison, it'd be for his own crimes but that wasn't what the men outside thought. And that left him with very few options that got him out of this house safely.

The best option was upstairs sleeping.

Sands made a disgusted sound as he climbed up the stairs. Clearly no one at that damned hospital had checked to see if his brain was functioning normally.

_I can't believe I'm doing this,_ Sands thought as he heard the front door open and close as the kids left for the morning. This was the first time in a great while that he was actually disgusted – _really _disgusted – with himself.

Liz had always been the heavy sleeper in the family. She was unaware of her door opening, or of the weight that caused one side of the mattress to sink; of the soft, sentimental kiss that brushed across her forehead or the whispered apology for what was about to happen. What woke her was the sound of her front door being broken in and the sight that greeted her was a sliver of morning light dancing up and down the barrel of a gun…held by her husband…and his unapologetic, unfeeling, sunglass-covered gaze.

* * *

**Additional Author's Note: **I thought I might explain the changes of POV. One of my favorite authors (Judith Merkle Riley), tends to switch every scene between two POVs...that of the narrator, and that of her heroine. I'm doing the same, expect I'm switching between three POVs - the narrator's, Liz's, and Sands'.

**Author's Thanks:** This edition is more like an 'Author's pointing of the finger' actually, since I was going to let this lie until you all opened me up to the possibility of more. With that said, I wish to thank (blame)…**Lynx** **Rider** (I've only seen one or two stories with Sands having a family back in the states, and most of those have involved ex-wives or ex-girlfriends who are soon to be wives. I wanted to write something different, and it's turned into this exploration of how far a person can change and still be the father and husband that's remembered by his family, and if he can or want to go back to a semblance of who he was. Thanks for the mince pie. ); **vanillafluffy** (you know me, always on a lookout for what hasn't been seen before. I'm still unsure to how this is going to end – I've got two options – but I hope that Liz can manage to stay in step with her husband. I can only expect her to flounder a little, but she's not one to give up, and that makes her a good match for this incarnation of Sands that I'm writing.); **quick29** (And back for more of an encore than I expected. Sands has too many intriguing sides to just stop writing him apparently.); **normal** **human** **being** (I certainly hope that at least some of my characterization from before has carried over to this chapter. I never meant for this to evolve, but it did and it was like working with too many Lincoln Logs to make my little fantasy house. Not so much repetition here, and hopefully Liz has carried enough of her former self over to explain what new characterization I've built.); **Dawnie**-**7** (New and unusual reading material is always fun. I'm just very glad you enjoyed this new tangent of mine.); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (I have kept going, just as everyone seemed to want, and I certainly hope I haven't disappointed you or anyone else in the effort.); **Merrie** (apparently the inner OUATIM fangirl call is too strong to ignore. And it's more like I can't say no to my own rather gruesome imagination than that I can't say no to SJ. :P); **Dangerbabe** (I apparently feel free to post more than simply "more" because this is starting to look like a project that's going to take awhile.); **websurffer** (Well, there's more, but I don't know about the potential part. I hope – geeze I say that a lot – that I did live up to the promise of the original bit, but I'll leave it to you, my jury, to decide.)


	3. Chapter Two

**Author's Note: **and I'm still on a roll. Apparently this story wants to be written. I wish it'd nudge 'Fractured Secrets' along. siiigh

Anyway, new chapter. I'm sure you can see that. Please enjoy.

* * *

_What the hell? _"What are you doing?!" I gasp. Waking up to find Sheldon watching me is out of the ordinary, but certainly not anything new. He's always been a watcher. Even from the day we met. The gun though…Sheldon doesn't – _didn't_ – like guns. Not out of any long held and cherished morals, but because they're too loud. _I'm_ the one that doesn't like weapons. It's my point of view that they only encourage and facilitate the spread of violence.

"How dare you bring that _thing_ into my house?" I demanded angrily. From the way his lips quirk, I think that my reaction isn't completely what he expected. Has he forgotten that anger always follows on the footsteps of my fear?

The sound of something breaking downstairs jerks my attention away from my unfathomable husband and makes me sit up in bed. "What's going on down ther –" I'm cut off as Sheldon smoothly slips behind me and wraps his arm around my chest. His body is warm. And that makes me irrationally uncomfortable. More so than the already forgotten gun in his hand. "Sheldon –"

"Can't you at least _pretend_ to be a _little_ intimidated by me?" he interrupts over the sound of crashes moving up the stairs and men's yelling.

"You're not going to shoot me," I reply absently and with more than a bit of bravado. _At least I hope not._

"You know that and I know that, but I'm counting on _them_ not knowing that." Now that he has me positioned the way he wants – which is with me facing the doorway – he resumes his threatening with the gun.

"'Them' who?" I flinch away from the cold touch of metal on the side of my face.

"Shh. Be a good little hostage and –"

"A what?!" I yelp as men come spilling through my bedroom door, and me in only my pajamas.

"Officer Sands! Lower your firearm and surrender yourself!"

My mouth is hanging open at the sight of the Kevlar-vest-wearing, rifle-bearing men. Sheldon isn't nearly as speechless as I – not that he ever has been.

"Now why would I do a thing like that? Really, Pete, I'm feeling a wee bit crowded here." I let out a small whimper as he roughly jerks my head back until its resting on his shoulder; all I can see is the ceiling. "How many are there?" he whispers in my ear.

"What?" It's difficult to ask the question with his hand under my chin.

Their speaker is going on and on about how Sheldon needs to give himself up and about other more impossible things, like how he's going to be sent to jail for the deaths of some of his colleagues. Sheldon just uses all that noise to cover up his question; his mouth barely moves. "I'm kinda having a bad day." Why is there so much irony in his voice? "How many are there?"

"Four," I whisper, assuming he means the intruders. But can't he see that?

"That you can see?"

_That I **could** see._ He's got a lot of explaining to do for his treatment of me, but I still answer softly. "Yes."

"Alright. Do you still keep a change of clothes in your trunk?"

"Yes, but –" His hand closes my mouth.

* * *

If it hadn't been necessary to be rough with her, he wouldn't have been. But since he didn't have much of a choice at the moment, Sands felt no guilt in pulling Liz up by his grip on her neck. _And why is it necessary? Because she's refusing to play her part in this twisted comedy. She never did like the theater. I wonder if this is a comedy of errors yet._ Sands pushed the distracting thoughts out of his head and turned his attention to the more pressing situation.

"Really, you're spouting clichéd dialogue with only minimal flair, Pete," Sands drawled as he and Liz got to their feet, his gun never wavering from its place at her temple. "You'd never make it on Broadway. Now, let me tell you how things are going to be. And no, this isn't the part where the evil genius gets so caught up in his plans that he forgets just how foolhardy the hero is." That tag was added just before he took a shot at a man who was inching forward on his left. Sands wasn't trying to hit the man – not that it would matter if he did – but he was serious about his breathing room. He didn't like crowds anymore.

It was only after Liz jumped in his grip that he remembered how much she disliked weapons. Instead of feeling apologetic though, he thought, _I wonder what Liz is wearing._ The memory of dull cotton pajamas that had always seemed to fill her drawers helped him put that salacious question out of his head. He cleared his throat and continued.

"Lizzie here has graciously offered me the use of her car, isn't that right, sweet stuff?" He kept her from trying to actually answer by slightly digging the barrel of his gun into her skin; her likely profane comment was turned into a gurgle that might well have been interpreted as a sound of terror by the men he was facing down. _That would be nice._ "However, since I forgot my driving glasses, she's going to have to come with me. And to make sure that she reaches her destination without any _accidents_ –" the word hung heavily in the air, " – you're not going to follow us. Capische?"

"The United States government does not negotiate with –"

"I'm negotiating with _you_, Pete. Not the White House." Sands' voice sounded vaguely annoyed. "Though if you think about it, this is really more of an ultimatum than an attempt at diplomacy. Now, do we go or do I have to maim my lovely wife to convince you I mean business?"

Liz stiffened at the veiled threat, now much more on edge since Sands had actually _fired_ his weapon. _Go to hell,_ she wanted to yell at him, but he was still pressing up on her jaw; she tried to struggle free of him, but he stilled her by cutting off her air supply.

"And I do mean business, Pete," Sands warned as he let Liz go red. "We go or I take down as many of your boys as I can, plus the little missus." _Com'on, Lizzie. Don't tell me you're falling for this bull-hocky. _Before he'd left, she'd learned to see through most of his scams. Was that something a person could forget how to do?

"You traitorous bas–"

Sands clicked his tongue – which did not disguise the sound of the hammer cocking in preparation of being fired again – and shook his head. "Such language in front of a lady. No wonder yours ran out. Oh, wait, bad Sands. She found out about the guy you had on the side." Oh, he _wished_ he could see the other man's face. It didn't matter if what he'd just said was true or not – those kinds of rumors could be enough to stall poor Pete's career indefinitely.

"I'm going to get you, Sands," Pete Rickman growled as he lowered his weapon. According to the Attorney General, they couldn't risk injury to a civilian, and Mrs. Sands was starting to turn purple.

"Perhaps," Sands agreed smoothly, letting up his grip a little. Enough so that Liz could take deep breaths if she was patient. She wasn't. Sands had to raise his voice to speak over her thin cough. "But right now you're going to occupy yourselves in here. And just to ease my troubled mind, you'll also radio your squad outside to let them know about our little arrangement." Silence. "Daylight's burning, Pete." Sands tensed his fingers, digging into the flesh of Liz's neck, giving the appearance – but not the reality – of resuming his stranglehold. He was going to need to have her on his side. Not fully, but at least a smidgen.

* * *

"Pull over at the nearest rest station." I suffer through several moments of sullen silence, but finally Liz responds.

"Why?" she mutters, just loud enough for me to hear her.

She mad – furiously mad – at me. It's too bad, but I can't let it crimp my style. At least not at the moment. Maybe someday – assuming I'm both alive and free to see "someday" – I'll apologize. I hope she doesn't hold her breath.

"Well I don't know about you, but I need to take a piss and I thought you might want to change into clothing that's a bit more…substantial." I can almost hear her grinding her teeth. Nasty habit. She used to have to wear something in her mouth at night to keep from doing it for hours on end. It's also an excellent indicator that she's about ready to pop her top. I know I should bit my tongue, but five years of habitually acting like an asshole – there! I said it. – is hard to overcome overnight. "Gee, your gratitude is so much less than underwhelming." I hear a rattle come from her right hand – that's the fifth time she's forgotten that she's handcuffed to the gear shift.

A deep sigh escapes me. I've managed to hold it back for most of the morning, but she's such a poor sport. "Look, it's nothing personal, Lizzie –"

"Ha!"

Okay, I admit that if our places were reversed, my point of view – ha-ha, point of view. That's a good one – might be that this was very personal indeed. But _she's_ the one that's making it personal. I just need a chauffer.

The car shudders as it slows down. I was foolish enough to point it out once and she neatly speared me with the observation that had I been home, maybe there would have been enough money to buy a new one. Now I keep my mouth shut when various buzzers let out shrill warnings that doors are open when they're not or that seatbelts are disengaged when they really are buckled.

The car stops, eliciting another mechanical alarm from the overworked vehicle. She hits something; the sound stops. Now the only sound either of us can hear are small pings and clicks as the engine starts to cool. A chill creeps into the car. New England is still firmly in the grip of winter, and the season isn't shy to make itself known. Earlier, the windshield wipers were shrieking – I assume in an effort to clear enough snow away to make driving safe enough to give Liz confidence in what she was doing. She doesn't like snow. Having grown up in the Pacific Northwest, she only had to deal with it once in a blue moon. Apparently she still hasn't adjusted…no, that's unfair. When we first moved to Virginia, she made me do _all_ the driving in winter.

It's getting colder. One of us has to make the first move. "Your clothes still in the trunk?" When she doesn't answer, I assume what I took for her shifting her weight was instead a shrug. "Do you need to use the ladies room?"

"No." This answer is short and to the point. It also reminds me that she probably hasn't eaten yet today. _She's not in danger of starving anytime soon._

"Alright." Fine with me. I don't really want to let her out of earshot because I wouldn't put it past her take off. It's more likely that she'd sit here and wait for me, if only on the off-chance that she might be able to make me miserable, but since I have a very permanent reminder of what happens when you take chances, I'm more than inclined to leave her sitting here.

Venturing into the cold, car keys in hand – I'm not going to give her the chance to drive off either – I shortly return with the overnight bag that has her clothing in it. I leave her to get dressed as best she can while I go to use the men's room.

Why is it that the john is such a wonderful place to think? Is it something about being as exposed as one can get in public without being slapped with an indecency charge? I don't know, but somewhere in the midst of my philosophical ruminations, I remembered just what had inspired them.

It was all well and good to get old Pete to promise not to come after us, but the big bosses weren't going to feel that it was necessary to honor that agreement. They'd be sneaky about it since there is a hostage involved… _They'll probably try to track us by helicopter._ And that would only be a threat if what they know what to look for was what they actually would find.

Ergo, the need for new transportation. Not to mention that the vibrations of the car were starting to give me the beginnings of a headache.

We need another car.

* * *

"What?" Liz wondered if the shock had finally gotten to her. That was the only explanation she could find that would explain away what she'd just heard her husband say. It was bizarre enough to find herself sitting handcuffed to her car, the sweatsuit she used to go jogging – freshly washed, thankfully – pulled on awkwardly over her pajamas. She was barefoot and her toes were getting cold. Her short hair was a mess of stale hairspray, causing it to stick out in strange directions where it wasn't matted to her head. This was already a surreal experience with her having heard what she thought she had.

"We're going to steal a car."

Damn. There he was saying it again. _Well, at least I know I'm not going crazy. Oh, no. That would be **him**._

"I'm not stealing a car," she said flatly.

"Well, unless you want to get involved in a bloody shoot-out, I suggest you work with me here."

She eyed him distrustfully. Every time he used that tone – the one where he sounded like he was speaking to a particularly dumb toddler – he had something up his sleeve. Some kind of trump card. "I thought we'd already agreed that you're not going to shoot me," she muttered.

"Oh, I'm not, sweetness –"

"Don't call me that." Part of her wondered why she kept challenging him when she was so obviously helpless. A bigger part of her bristled at his continued pretense at some kind of intimacy existing between them. "I'm not your 'sweetness,' or your 'sweet thing,' or anything else. You've made it perfectly clear what I am."

_A pain in the bum?_ "And what would that be, sweetness?" Now the nickname was a matter of who had control, and it was most definitely him.

"Oh, I don't know? A free meal? A roof over your head? A hostage?"

"You sell yourself short, Lizzie. You're a chauffer too. Now get out of the car."

"No. I don't have any shoes and it's snowing out there." Sands rubbed at his temples, but Lizzie refrained from asking what was wrong. If something _was_ wrong, then he deserved it. "If you want to go, don't let me stop you."

"Well, there's the rub, Lizzie. By not accompanying me, you _are_ in fact stopping me. Unless of course, I want to take another hostage. But they probably wouldn't be as well behaved as you, and I'd probably have to shoot them eventually, so you can see how I'd be disinclined to let you go on your merry way. Get out of the car."

"What do you need me for?" she pleaded. Her babies would be getting out of school soon, if they hadn't heard about their father's foolishness by now. Who was going to take care of them? "Chris and Mandy –" Mandy who'd shown unconditional love for her father. Chris who hurt so much from this man's abandonment. "They need me." But would this man care?

All the amusement and good humor that had graced Sands' countenance had fled. Using their children as a shield was low. Once he would have killed to keep his children safe. Hell, he had killed. He'd killed their father and become someone else to keep them protected from the world he was sinking into by necessity and later by choice. And now it wasn't a threat to his children that made his blood run cold, but the reminder of how totally and completely he'd left them abandoned. It couldn't be helped though.

"My colleagues will see to it that they're taken care of, Lizzie. Now…get out of the car."

His voice was hard and uncompromising. It was radically different than any tone he'd ever used to address her before, yet Liz found a familiar resonance in it. She couldn't place it, but it gave her courage to ignore his command. "_You don't need me,_" she stressed. "You want to steal a car? Well how am I supposed to help with that? We'll forget for the moment that the last place on earth that I want to be is in close proximity with you. So what are you going to do? Hold someone at gunpoint and demand their keys? I won't be party to that. Are you going to hotwire something? I don't know how to do that. I wouldn't be any help." In a last ditch attempt to get him to see things her way, she reached across the space between them and grabbed his hand. "Please let me go, Sheldon."

Sands practically recoiled away from her, but it didn't last long. Within the space of a single breath, he'd turned the tables on her, imprisoning her one free hand in his grasp. Now she was well and truly trapped; her blood rushed into her ears in a great wave before leaving her head totally for her toes as she saw the absolutely emotionless look on his face. She realized that he could kill her right now and never have a second thought about it.

"Who are you?" she whispered in weak horror, pulling as far away from him as she could.

Cold irony twisted his mouth into an ugly parody of a smile. "Sheldon Jeffrey Sands of the CIA, at your service." The irony receded, leaving Sands feeling cold and empty; Liz's fear receded as well, leaving sadness in its wake. Her fingers automatically tightened around his because this stranger was still her husband and she still distantly loved him.

His soul – if he'd ever managed to reclaim his soul from the mental storage facility where he'd placed it shortly after his arrival in Mexico – ached. Distracted, Sands reached up to rub at his chest and the cold lump that seemed to sit there, but that would be too telling. He adjusted his sunglasses again. The words, the confession, the searing pain of admitting his arrogance were clamoring in the back of his mind. He wanted to tell her everything; from the conception of breaking free of the CIA to the bone-chilling memory of the high whine of a drill. His heart pounded recklessly at the thought of telling her that he was blind, admitting it, giving her that power over him, of seeing how she used that power. _Knowledge is power, knowledge is power, knowledge is…_

No. Not yet. He wouldn't tell her yet. But a compromise was in order. It was clear that he'd never get her to help him – _god_, he hated thinking that he needed help – unless he made some concessions. And he needed her firmly on his side. That was why he couldn't just leave her here and take another hostage. He wouldn't be able to sleep with one eye open – _Never again. I'll never be able to do that again. – _forever. If he was going to clear his name and get to the man who was trying to frame him, he needed an ally. She was his wife. If he couldn't get her to help him, who could he possibly turn to?

"You're wrong, Lizzie. I do need your help. I know you've got no reason to trust me, and I'm not asking you to. I'm asking you to just go along with me because I have no intention of being caught. And if I'm not caught, and I _don't_ find the man who's responsible for turning my own colleagues against me, then you're going to have to deal with being hounded by the Agency until A) they give up, or B) I surrender myself. And they don't give up."

"And you won't surrender yourself." _Especially not for a little thing like your family. _

His mouth quirked as if he'd guessed what she was thinking, but he didn't say anything to correct her.

"What do I get in return, Sheldon?" There was more to the story than what he was giving her, she was sure of it. There was something he wasn't telling her about, some risk to life and limb that he was obscenely downplaying, some secret he was hiding. If she was going to be putting her neck on the line, then she sure as hell wanted to make sure that there was some kind of reward with going through with this madcap plan of his.

Sands' smile once again turned ironic, but not the cold irony of before. "That divorce you've been nagging people about."

"Doesn't seem like much."

He shrugged and let go of her hand. "I'd promise that you'd never have to set eyes on me again, but –"

"That's not our choice." That choice belonged to her children.

Her husband shrugged again; silence fell down around them while he waited for her answer, his fingers twitching in his sudden craving for a good smoke.

"Alright," she finally whispered, feeling as if she were signing her soul away to the devil himself. "But once we come to the next town, we're buying bus tickets, and we're calling to police to let them know where to find the car."

"Whatever you say, sugarbutt."

"I'm serious, Sheldon," she protested as he reached down to free unlock the cuff that was around the gear shift. He didn't reply – other than to get out of the car – and she had the distinct feeling that he was laughing at her.

_He never said thank you._

The snow was cold under her bare feet.

* * *

I don't know what's wrong with him.

We'd crossed the border into Virginia shortly after noon, and arrived in small town named Passapatanzy about an hour ago. It wasn't much – at least not to eyes that'd gotten used to the scenery of Bethesda – but it had a bus station.

Sheldon insisted we stop by a store where he went inside and bought me a pair of shoes. Once he'd brought them back for me, we both went inside. He let me get a few necessities and two changes of clothes. "No more than can fill up a backpack," he said. Still subdued from our talk in the parking lot of the rest station, I listened and did as he said. He finished his shopping before I did; I think he wanted to hide something from me, but I can't image what. I do know that his bag rattled slightly, as if there was a bottle of pills inside. Why he'd want to hide that, I've no idea.

Anyway…

We went to the bus station and bought tickets for Martinsburg, West Virginia; since nothing was leaving town until the next day, I insisted that we find somewhere to stay for the night. We found a little motel, got a room with double beds, and that's when I got the suspicion that something wasn't quite right. _That is, if "suspicion" means the glaring light of truth beat down on us with all the mercy of a desert sun._

As we were walking through the uninspired hallways to our room, Sheldon nearly walked right into a wall. That wasn't what worried me though. What worried me was the way he reacted. All he did was misjudge the corner a little so that his left arm brushed against the wall. I caught it out of the corner of my eye; by the time I'd turned my head, Sheldon had jumped back, pulled out his gun, and fired a shot into the wall. Now I wonder what would have happened if there hadn't been a silencer on the weapon. Then I was shocked.

"Sheldon?" I breathed, not liking the way all color had drained from his face. He swayed on his feet; I reached out and wrapped my hand around his elbow. He leaned against me for a few breaths. By the way he didn't say anything, I figured he knew that he'd just shot a defenseless wall. Then he pulled away from me and tersely asked if I'd be kind enough to get my butt moving.

That was nearly two hours ago. When we got into the room, Sheldon took up residence on one of the beds. He hasn't said anything since, not even to tell me that I'm irritating him with all my concern. And I know I am, or that I was. I could see it on his face. Well, he's irritating too.

I took a shower in the tiny little bathroom, dried myself on the threadbare towels, and dressed in my sweats. If what happened this morning is going to become a reoccurring event – _I swear to god that if it does, I'm leaving._ – I at least want to be dressed for the occasion.

Sheldon's asleep. He looks a little uncomfortable laying there, his head turned so that the arms of his sunglasses must be digging into his skin. I've been a mother for far longer than I've been a wife, so I tell myself it's that motherly instinct that's pushing me to remove his glasses. It's not an idle desire to rip them off his face because he's been wearing them constantly since he showed up on my doorstep. That would be beneath me.

But I don't get up from the bed I'm sitting on. I'm tired. I've been on edge all day long. I decide that it's no less than he deserves, after what he did to me this morning. My neck is bruised…I just found that out. Not severely, but when I got out of the shower and wiped the steam from the tarnishing mirror, there was a faint ring of bruising around my neck. Just thinking about it makes me shudder.

It takes a major force of will to make me get off the bed so I can brush my teeth, but I do it. And then I reward myself for my fortitude by getting under the top layer of covers on the bed and turning off the lights. _He must be tired,_ I thought, rolling onto my side. _He didn't even turn off any of the lights._

* * *

The flickering of the light in the bathroom woke Liz up. She never slept comfortably in new places. She looked at the alarm clock that was about the only amenity in this motel; it was shortly after midnight. With a groan of irritation, she rolled over and wondered if it'd be worth it to get up and turn off the light or leave it on all night. The darkness of strange places was so very…empty…in her mind. But it was the emptiness that foretold of coming occupation, and even at her age she was still a little leery of the dark.

It irritated her that Sands was still motionlessly asleep across from her. He hadn't seemed to have stirred a single finger in the past hours._ Why does he get such carefree sleep?_ she grumped.

"Sheldon?" she asked softly, out of no other reason that if she couldn't sleep, then he wasn't going to get to sleep uninterrupted either. But her voice wasn't loud enough to get any more reaction out of him than a deep sigh. His mouth turned down at the corners as if his unconscious mind relegated her voice to some kind of nightmare.

"Sheldon." This time she said his name louder and more insistently.

It garnered the same reaction.

"Fine," she muttered, throwing aside her covers and swinging her feet out of the bed. Into the bathroom she went for a drink; she chose to leave the light on, but she did close the door a little to block some of the light. Now she had just enough to navigate by. Now there was just enough to dimly reflect of the lenses of Sands' glasses.

Liz stood by his side for a few minutes, contemplating the picture he made. Dressed all in black, he melted into the shadows. His hair looked like a dark stain on the pillow he was using. His face was a shade of browny-grey. The only thing that ruined the illusion of his being a shadow-man were the sunglasses. They aggravated her for some reason. He'd always loved sunglasses, but at least he used to take them off when he was talking to her. He'd known how much it bothered her to talk to someone whose eyes she couldn't see; it was the same with people who wore baseball caps low over their eyes. She'd been known to flip the hats off if the wearer wasn't polite enough to at least tip the bill up.

Since he'd come back, he hadn't once even motioned to take of his glasses.

Giving into temptation and thinking, _Honestly. He should have known better,_ Liz reached down to pull the irritating accessory off.

She moved slowly to avoid detection. When her fingers ran across the smooth, perfect curve of the frame, she congratulated herself.

But the congratulations were premature.

"What the hell –"

Liz squeaked and jumped back, taking the glasses with her.

* * *

**Author's Thanks: **as always, I've many to thank, beginning with…**Dawnie-7** (I really want to capture that awkwardness between a couple that's been through a long separation and a lot of life. Neither of them is what the other remembers, and I love the friction that results from that. There's no story without conflict, and I'm much better at writing personal conflict rather than action conflict. :P); **Merrie** (You're not getting chapters out of me. You're getting them out of the story. I swear I have nothing to do with anything that's going on here. ); **vanillafluffy** (I'm glad the POV changes aren't confusing. I'm trying to keep a pattern going – i.e. narrator, Sands, narrator, Liz, narrator, etc… - and it certainly helps me not to get board. I'm all about insinuation, but hopefully I'll be able to back it up. My plot for this fic is ever so much clearer though than my plot for FS. As for safety, if I guaranteed anyone's safety, what fun would I have? D); **Lynx** (can I just say how much I love your monster reviews:P One of the things I kinda observed about Sands – and this is through the movie, through the RR commentary, and the other extra features – is that his sense of humor is a rather morbid, and that he doesn't really use it. After all, he's making jokes with Jorge there at the end. So to take that humor away would be to concentrate on another face of Sands, and I've never written this one. Sands isn't so much a family man, as much as he uses what he knows about people to manipulate situations to his best interest. And he knows his family well, or better than he knows a lot of people in the states. Right now I don't know if Sands is going to end up with his family or not. It's a possibility, but I've got lots of those.); **quick29** (withdrawal isn't a good thing. If I can help out with that, I'm more than happy to. ); **Arenas** (Nah, don't worry. You know I'm the first to tell anyone to get some sleep. ;) Bittersweet…there's a good descriptor. Not exactly angst, but very bittersweet.); **normal human being** (That's the thing about the OUATIM bandwagon – sometimes Sands gets crowded and pushes you off. I'm glad you didn't notice the similarities I was afraid of. Now that I've got chapter two out of the way, I'm not afraid of the similarity either. Character development is very good, especially when trying to turn a vignette into a WIP.); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (That's the great thing about Sands…it's so very easy to pick out a few comments about him and then see him in an entirely new light. This time my inspiration is more along the lines of "there's something incredibly romantic about the blind gunslinger." I'm glad that was said on the special features.); **websurfer** (I'm glad you're willing to go along with me on faith here. ;P I'm saving the revelation of blindness for the right moment. You gotta admit that he was doing okay in Mexico without his eyes. He's a tricky, tricky man, after all. The revelation that he's blind though will come long before we get the story behind it.); **Spoofmaster** (Apparently I am firmly a 'Sands goes back to the US' girl. All my OUATIM stories have revolved around that, it seems. But I am definitely against ex-girlfriends unless they're being used for information, a convenient place to _platonically_ spend the night, or something like that, and they don't appear for more than one chapter. And sometimes I wish things would turn out a bit more conveniently for me.); **misc** (The end is a long way away still, but I'll certainly continue and finish sooner or later.); **Little Fox** (I did! Continue that is! Welcome!); **Kitty Kisser** (Well, I think that if you smote FS for me it'd get you better results. It's not me. It's the story. nods And I'm glad you're liking this.) 

**Note: **I wrote an entire two paragraphs of 'Fractured Secrets' today, so hopefully I'll be ready to post some of that sooner or later.


	4. Chapter Three

**Author's Note: **sorry, meant to have this out earlier, but I got majorly distracted by Harry Potter…read all five books through twice, in chronological order, in about two weeks. But now I'm satisfied until the next book comes out, and I'm starting to get into the real plot of this fic. Things are going good from my standpoint. :)

Enjoy, and remember to reply, and read the author thanks at the end.

* * *

Before either of us realize what's happening, Liz is halfway across the other bed and I just manage to stop her escape by the simple maneuver of pouncing on her before she can really get any momentum.

There's a long moment of silence. The only reason I know she's facing me is that I can feel the irregular puffs of her breath occasionally gust across my cheek. Even though I have her pinned, I don't reach for my shades. I suppose some morbid part of me – is there any other parts these days? – wants to find out how she's going to react.

"Sheldon?" From her breathless gasp I can almost imagine that I hurt her, or that the past near two decades have been a dream and this is our first night together. She'd been so book-smart – there was no disputing that – but there'd been a lot about…life…that she hadn't known. The pleasure of educating her had made me smug. I could teach her even more now, show her all the things she is still naïve of, but what would that accomplish? I've already made her life miserable enough without teaching her that.

I roll off her, simple memory sending me into an unprecedented retreat. Or _is_ it a retreat? She certainly hasn't moved a muscle trying to force me off.

If it's dark in the room, perhaps she didn't see – really see – my face. But even if the lights are all out, she had to have had ample time to figure out that something is _very_ wrong with me. Did she see the gory sinkholes that used to serve as eyes? Are shadows masking my face, making me look like a raccoon, or are the lights on to reveal my shame in all its macabre glory?

But she stays so damned quiet. I can't even hear the gears turning as she puts together how I've been acting to come up with the whole, terribly blank, picture. I light a cigarette as I wait and wonder if her silence is due to revulsion. Is she staring? Shivering in disgust? Grinning in delight?

"You know, as enjoyable as the silence is, Lizzie, I'd appreciate it if you'd…oh, I don't know…let me know that the shock hasn't killed you?" I tilt my head back and expel a stream of smoke straight up into the air, as if displaying my handicap, exposing my vulnerability in the best light possible. As if I'm trying to force her to make some kind of sound – because that's nearly all I have left – in acknowledgement of what she sees.

"Sheldon?"

Lizzie's voice is small and uncertain.

"The last time I bothered to look in a mirror, yes, I believe that's who I was." _I wonder if she knows that she sounds like a broken record._ It sounds as if she doesn't believe her eyes. Too bad I know for a fact that she can.

* * *

Liz couldn't understand his joke. She was too caught up in the grip of horror. "Sheldon, what happened?"

Her distress was clear in her voice, and was just as clear in her touch. Sands recoiled from the hand that landed on his arm as if he'd been burned with acid.

"Never mind," he snapped, grabbing up his glasses with only a minimal amount of fumbling. All he felt and heard was pity, and that was the last thing he wanted from anyone. Especially not from her.

He underestimated her ability for selfishness though. Liz hadn't been looking to comfort, but to _be_ comforted. The sight of his mutilated face was…disconcerting to say the least. How could he act as if it were nothing?

"Finished staring yet or do you want to wait until morning when the light's better?"

She knew that scathingly sardonic tone all too well, but this was one of the few times it'd been pointed at her. And she didn't like it at all. "Stop it," she half-asked, half-ordered.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetness. Am I making you uncomfortable?"

The derisive tone had disappeared, but the bitterness that replaced it was no better. And since it was all aimed at her, a weapon chosen with her in mind, it was like adding insult to injury. "Don't talk to me like that, Sheldon! None of this is my fault."

The moment the words rang free in the air, Liz clapped her hands over her mouth. For a moment she'd forgotten the situation and spoken to him as if he were Chris. She didn't need to see Sands go stone-still before her eyes to know that she'd just made a mistake. Every hair on her body stood on end as Sands raised his hand to put his cigarette between his lips. He paused, and Liz carefully shifted her weight. Something told her that it was in her best interests to remove herself from the situation as soon as humanly possible.

Her movements weren't nearly slow or gentle enough for her to escape detection though. "Don't…move." Sands' voice was soft…velvety…deadly.

Liz didn't listen. Her alarm now caused her to forget how he'd been getting around all day. Sands was disgusted at how easily she gave into underestimating him. But it did seem to justify what he was about to do. The release that his paranoia, anger, fear, and uncertainty had been begging for since he'd left the hospital at American University.

"You always think you know better, don't you?" he asked, his voice just as low and dangerous as before, but this time his actions were crafted to match. "You always have to argue, and disregard…"

"Sheld–"

Taking advantage of her stupidity, he reached out and grabbed her by the neck. Shifting his weight, he managed to wrestle her down to the mattress just as she tried to bolt. "Nuh-uh," he whispered into her ear. "Can't have any of that." Her fingers were prying at his hand, but he ignored them. It was good to feel his blood rushing through his veins, to feel his heart pounding. He felt alive, and he liked it.

"Time for a lesson, Lizzie." His right hand stayed restrictingly tight on her neck as his left glided up her skin, coming to rest along her jaw. The flesh of her cheek was warm; the shell of her ear – which was nestled between his first two fingers – was smooth. But he hardly paid attention to these sensations. Once they might have driven him wild. Now he was already wild and set on another goal.

"You keep underestimating me, sweetness." He clicked his tongue. "Let me tell you a little story about why that's unwise." And he did. He whispered into her ear the parts that he wanted her to know; that something had gone wrong, that his "deformity" was the result, and what he'd then done to everyone who'd underestimated what the blind man could do. As he talked, his thumb came to rest on her closed right eye. While the story progressed, he exerted more and more pressure. He could feel tears under his skin, but he didn't care. All that mattered was making his point. All that mattered was bleeding off some of the poisonous fury that was banging in his head. He couldn't live with it in there; he didn't feel alive unless he was doing something to bleed it off. Liz had just gotten in the way.

His voice faltered as that thought resonated inside his head. He hadn't wanted to hurt her…had he? He'd just wanted to teach her a lesson…hadn't he? Anger was all well and good when it was being put to practical uses. Lessons were practical. Was he teaching anymore?

"You listening, Lizzie?"

Her only reply was a sob.

Sands went cold as he heard in her sob all the things she could rightfully accuse him of right now. He hadn't set out to hurt her, just scare her a little. Somewhere the line had blurred though, his anger had won out, and he'd lost control. And that was simply too dangerous.

But he was boxed in now. He couldn't simply just stop. Then she'd know that he was not as confident as he appeared to be, and she'd try to manipulate him. He couldn't continue, because he needed her. And he most certainly couldn't let her get comfortable again.

So he did what he could to salvage the situation. He kept Liz pinned underneath him while he reached for the small nightstand between their beds. In the drawer was the pair of handcuffs that had seen so much use today. Then without saying another word, he clicked one bracelet around her right arm, and the other around a slat in the bedstead. In an odd display of concern, he made sure that the pillows behind Liz's head were comfortably placed before he moved back to his own territory.

"The man you married is dead," he informed the woman across from him. "I'm not him. You'd do well to remember that, and that I don't really mind having to kill to get my way."

* * *

He's tired. I can see it now. I spent hours watching him during the night, too afraid to go to sleep after our…altercation. Why I bothered, I can't tell you, since my right eye was teary and blurry for a good hour after he apparently went back to sleep, but I _had_ to. He was dangerous.

They tell women in dangerous situations – or at least, the tell women that should they ever _be_ in a dangerous situation – to not provoke their captor. I hadn't been trying to. Honestly. But I had been taken in by the illusion that this man was my husband, and that he'd been hurt, and that we could somehow comfort each other. Sheldon would laugh and say that sex is the last thing on his mind right now, but that's not what I mean. Not that it really matters, I suppose.

Anyway, it's morning now. Sands let me go an hour ago so that I could wash and pack. He'd already done all of this – I guess my vigilance wasn't enough to keep from nodding off sometime around dawn. Whatever sleep I did get isn't enough to keep my feet from dragging or my head from hanging from my neck like some kind of dead thing. I suppose the human body can only deal with tense situations for so long, and my days have always been stressful enough to make me exhausted by eight or nine o'clock without adding in the factor of my stranger-husband. Now I'm simply thankful that I haven't dropped anything yet. I can feel Sheldon's mood and I think that a large dose of ridicule would come my way if I did.

Not that he's moving too quickly himself. I suppose that's the real reason I think he's tired. He's pale, and his hands have a developed a slight tremble. _Though it's beyond me why I should care. He certainly doesn't want me to._ Is it just me, or do I sound bitter? I can't possibly still want…

_A happy marriage?_ God, yes. I want a happy marriage. I never wanted to be a single mother. Sheldon promised that I wouldn't have to be. He broke that promise, and that made me so very angry. I hated him for a long time after his letters stopped. But the hate developed into lethargy as Chris and Mandy got older, and then into dull acceptance. It was the acceptance that spurred me to ask for a divorce. Anything was better than simply plodding through my days alone. And part of me did hope that Sheldon would come home to mend fences.

Looking at him now, I can only think that it was a fool's hope. He doesn't _want_ to come back. Last night he accused me of underestimating him. Perhaps I did. But he's the one who's decided that he's changed so much that it's not worth trying to make things right between us. And I can't make things right on my own. Sheldon's always been stubborn. Too stubborn sometimes to see what's right in front of his…

The thought gracefully dies a silent death as the image of his sightless face hovering above my own shoves itself to the forefront of his mind.

_Just because it's not a pretty sight doesn't mean that…_

_Doesn't mean what?_

I don't dare answer. Any answer I might come up with would be so alien that I would drop something, and the ridicule would come my way and I'd have no way to defend myself against it. Better to simply do as he advised last night. Better to consider my Sheldon dead.

But can I? When he appears in front of me so unexpectedly? This man may not be Sheldon, but he has bits of Sheldon inside him, and they pop up unexpectedly, like flecks of feldspar in a granite rock face, or echoes in a deserted room. Suppose I could unearth Sheldon from what he's determined to pass off as a living tomb? Would he thank me? Would it be worth it? Would I survive the attempt?

"Move your ass. It's time to go."

* * *

The bus was hot. _Not that it has any reason to be,_ Liz thought, fighting back another yawn. Outside there were snowdrifts on the side of the road. Inside, every window was fogged and the heat was nearly oppressive. At least half the other passengers were sound asleep and Liz would have liked nothing better than to join them…but she had one hindrance to sleep that no one else had. _She_ had a paranoid and trigger-happy man sitting next to her, undoubtedly just _waiting_ for her to let her guard down.

Liz nervously looked away from the window and glanced at Sands. His lips were tight and his breath seemed to coming hard. Or perhaps she was just being hopeful that he was going to drop dead. Yes, she was currently feeling vindictive. Yes, that was an about face from what she'd been feeling that morning. Yes, she intended it to stay that way.

_Just because he's…_ she faltered, remembering the sight of his empty sockets. _Okay, perhaps I can understand why he's paranoid. It'd be hard not to be after that. But why…? What gives him the right to take it out on **me**?_ Liz thought, somewhat aggrieved. Like she'd so disastrously pointed out earlier, it wasn't as if _she'd_ done anything wrong. Except perhaps to not throw him out on his bum when he'd turned up on her doorstep. Liz glowered out her window.

Glowering – even though it wasn't much of a defense or a weapon – was about all she had though. Sands had effectively proved that he could still overpower her without too much trouble. And not only that, but he was still armed and she wasn't foolish enough to believe that he wouldn't use his badge to create some cock-and-bull story that would give him the leeway to use that force against her without anyone protesting. All he had to do was say she was under arrest and no one would argue. Sands was clever…and he was a bully.

Not that she hadn't known that when they'd been dating. But he'd been gentler then. His laugh had come more freely when she'd pointed out his arrogance – and she always had. When she'd told him to back off, he did. But if she were to try that now?

_If?_ She sighed and tried not to fidget. That would just earn her a frown. _The truth of the matter is though,_ she thought as she started doodling on the fog of the window, _I've already tried to point out his bullying._ It hadn't done her any good. If he'd laughed, it hadn't been any sort of admittance that she was right. It had probably been a "Well-you're-out-of-luck" laugh. She'd made that sound before – most recently when Chris had asked for money to buy a new videogame. _Not only was it too expensive, but it'd been too violent…_ The irony that she was now worrying about the violence in a videogame didn't escape her.

_I wonder how they're doing._ A stab of pain went through her. Was Chris looking out for and taking care of Amanda? Were they both being taken care of by someone who would reassure them along with making sure they were fed? Were they being told that their mother was going to be just fine, and would be home as soon as she could?

The bus shuddered to a stop. The driver announced what town they were in. People laden with bags, people with bags under their eyes, people with diaper bags, small children, _and_ bags under their eyes…. They all slowly filed past as Liz watched, shuffling their feet and fastening up their coats. She used their noise to turn to Sands and quietly say, "I want to talk to my children."

"I want a nice steak fajita and a tequila – with or without lime – but you don't see me complaining, do you?" Sands' drawling tone indicated that he didn't care what she wanted.

"A steak fajita doesn't have nightmares about its father killing its mother," she hissed.

"Now there's a strong argument."

Liz's eyes narrowed. "I fail to see how lunch is just as relevant as the peace of mind of our children."

Sands momentarily ignored the irate woman next to him as he decided he'd much rather have a cigarette than food. He hadn't liked buses much since the second grade when Billy Thomas had stolen his lunch everyday for two weeks straight. It wasn't the loss of food he'd disliked, but the bruises that'd accompanied it since he hadn't had the sense to give it up without a fight.

"Sheldon," Liz interrupted, her earnest voice bordering on irritation. "They're probably scared. But then you haven't exactly cared about that for awhile, have you?"

Had anyone cared when _he'd_ been scared? Had any of his requests for help been answered? Had anyone come rushing to comfort him? Sands was dying to tell his tenderhearted wife that the world didn't work that way. Compassion really wasn't worth much. Sooner or later things were going to spiral out of her control and the kids were just going to have to _deal_ with it. So it was to his great surprise that he said, "Not now. Maybe later."

Liz found herself staring at Sands is shock. He'd capitulated so quickly. The hundred or so arguments that she'd gathered to convince him to see reason were now stuck in her throat. Angry for no reason, she thought, _What business does he have for simply giving in? I wanted to fight._ Liz realized that she was ready to bait him into an argument; she snapped her head back around to stare out the window. Sands-baiting, while a fun sport, was hardly seemly, innocent, or a good idea. Just moments before she'd been reminded herself that he might take advantage of it to bully her. Now she was straining at the bit.

_Stop being foolhardy. Just get home to Chris and Mandy._ Liz closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the window. Her goal had to be to protect her family, to get home safely to them.

Sands could hear Liz gritting her teeth and it made his surrender tolerable. Liz was one of those people who always had plenty of arguments to back up her position. She was also one of those people who got annoyed when they didn't get to use them. The fact that she was now irritated by getting the very thing she'd wanted amused him greatly and made the rest of this never-ending trip bearable.

* * *

It was nothing short of absolute relief to get off the damn bus. But even that couldn't compare to the sensation I felt when a shrill whistle split the air. For the first time in weeks I grinned and meant it.

With a careless nudge, I direct Liz to the left. "See anyone in a bigass cowboy hat?" I ask, the grin not disappearing. I only know one person who can whistle that loudly, and he's not only a cowboy, but he's been burned recently as well.

She sniffs – I assume she doesn't approve of my language – but she doesn't stop leading the way, and that was all I really need. As long as she does that, everything is golden.

My confidence leads to an embarrassing moment when Liz stops suddenly in front of me. I stop a moment too late and end up stepping on the back of her heel; she hisses in pain, but doesn't snap at me. Perhaps she's afraid that I will take away her chance to call her…our…the kids if she upsets me.

"Shep! Why didn't you ever mention that your wife is a looker?"

My grin grows bigger. "Who says that's my wife?" I wait in anticipation for the eventual outburst…

"Well, then you're still a lucky bas–"

"Good to see you too, Robbo," I interrupt. "Of course, it's kinda hard to miss you in that moronic hat." Again there's a moment of silence and I can just see Roberts fondling his outsized Stetson. Deciding to throw in all my chips – because part of me wonders if this prolonged silence isn't due to Roberts having foregone his signature headwear – I ask, "So, why'd you choose black again this year?"

As the seconds drag on without a word from Roberts or Lizzie, I get nervous and I pull out my cigarettes, trying my best to appear confident and casual. It's a very bizarre scene, like in the movies where the guy's wondering if he'll get the date with the girl.

Just as I'm touching match to cigarette tip, Roberts lets out his roar of a laugh. "You're still a gutsy, son of a –"

"Didn't your momma ever teach you not to curse in front of a lady?" I don't know why I keep interrupting before my comrade can curse. Perhaps some foolish part of me is still trying to show Lizzie that I'm not completely despicable. It's something of a pipe dream I'm afraid, but that doesn't seem to be stopping me.

"I'd apologize," Roberts drawls, "but we haven't been properly introduced."

I raise my eyebrows as a list of several hundred things that he's done with/to/for women he's never been "properly introduced" to floats to the top of my head, but I don't bother pointing any of them out. I expel a cloud of smoke, and then perform the honors. "Roberts, this is Lizzie, my lovely wife –" Lizzie snorts in disdain and I ignore her. "Lizzie, this is Gene Roberts –"

"– partner in crime, at your service," Roberts interrupts and I _wish_ I could roll my eyes. He could smother someone with the amount of charm he's poring on. However, I hear Liz harrumph again, and for some reason I feel myself smile. Again. _It must be the lack of food._

"Enough trying to charm my wife, Robbo. The rest of the guys are waiting for us are they not?"

"Killjoy."

"If it gets in my way, yes. Are you driving or am I?"

"Are you kidding? I put down a sizable deposit on this baby." I hear him slap his hand against metal and my mind conjures up the image of a two-ton diesel pickup. "I'd like to get that money back, considering I may have to flee the country if this all goes to hell."

"Oh ye of little faith." I take Liz's arm – after a bit of discrete groping for it – and lead her around to the passenger side door. I hear Roberts getting in his side as I force Liz to go in first. I want to sit by a window. They don't call it shotgun for nothing.

Within minutes, we're on the road. Liz is somewhat squashed between the two of us, but she doesn't utter a word. I wonder if I'm in for the silent treatment, and if I care if I am.

Ignoring my oh-so-pleasant bride, I ask Roberts, "Where's the safe house?"

"Hagerstown, right over the border. It'll take us about a half an hour to get there. Just in time for pizza."

My stomach growls. I ignore that too. "Who else managed to fly low enough under radar to get here?"

"Most of us who've been at the receiving end of the company line. Karstens, Riley, Marsala, Grotke, Smith, Talbot, Abbot, and Bob."

"Bob?"

"Yeah, you know Bob. Bob Vansodemheimer or whatever his last name is. He was stationed in Caracas."

"Oh right, Bob. I hear he found a reputable dealer of glass eyes." I feel Liz shudder. For some reason that makes me frown slightly – it's the first time she's shown outright dislike for what happened.

"Yeah, I hear they're having a two for one sale."

"Hmm…too bad I can't make it. Didn't he lose something else? His hand?"

"No, that was Carmike. And he didn't make it. I hear he's cooling his heels in the stockade at Langley for the time being. Why? Looking for a prosthetic?"

My frown turns into a full-blown scowl. _My_ prosthetic is somewhere sitting in the Mexican dust, or more likely, it's been scavenged by some brat… The ghostly image of a yellow t-shirt seems to chide me for that thought. _Piss off. I liked that arm._

* * *

When they arrived at the small dingy hotel suite that Sands had taken to calling HQ, Liz was surprised by the number people there. She did a quick count and found more than the eight people "Robbo" had mentioned in the car; all of them – men and the few women alike – were rather the worse for wear and they all sported the same grim smiles. It was like a class reunion for hit men or war survivors. Feeling awkward, useless, and extremely self-conscious, she was almost relived when Sands threw a few pieces of cool pizza on a plate, grabbed a beer, and sent her into a bedroom.

"When can I call –"

"Later." With that snappish reply, he shut the door in her face.

Liz listened to his footsteps fade then sat down at a small table since there wasn't much else to occupy her attention, and started to eat. Looking around she decided that the hotel wasn't that dingy, it was just old and worn. The murmur of voices in the other room rose and fell, making her feel more excluded than she already was.

When her meal was gone but for a few grease marks on the paper plate, she got up and went into the small connected bathroom. At first she was grateful for the chance to get clean, but she soon started to get mad again. It was plain to see – at least in her mind – that she wasn't exactly needed. Now that Sands had his buddies to conspire with and to watch his back, she didn't exactly serve any purpose. She was stuck in this little room when she could be at home. She was still living this nightmare when she could be someplace safe and reassuring herself that it had _been_ only a nightmare.

Getting out of the shower, she dressed and steeled herself to go out and confront Sands. Surely _someone_ could take her back to the bus station tomorrow.

She had made it as far as the hallway before she heard Roberts ask, "So why did you drag along your wife? It doesn't look as if the home fires are burning _that_ brightly." Holding her breath, she waited for Sands' answer.

His chuckle floated to her waiting ears, followed closely by his drawling, mocking voice. "I crashed her place for a bit of a nap, but old Pete –"

"Rickman?"

"Yeah. Apparently he had other plans. Tried to take me into custody. I didn't have much of a choice but to take a hostage and trust me, it hasn't been a barrel of laughs."

Liz gasped in anger. He was making fun of her? After what he'd done, after making her leave her house at gunpoint _and_ in her pajamas? After manhandling her, and handcuffing her, and threatening her, he thought _he_ was the injured party? Oh, he was going to get a piece of her mind. She was going to…

"So, where's Masden and who gets to off him?"

The casualness of Sands' voice made Liz's blood turn to ice. _They're plotting murder?_ Who were these people that her husband had fallen in with? She started to doubt if he'd told her the truth all those years ago when he'd said that he was going off to work for the CIA. After all, she was only an inconvenient wife. Why would he tell _her_ the truth?

Liz noticed a pair of eyes looking at her with interest. Swallowing hard, she started to edge back down the hall, trying to get into her room without making a noise. Despite her brave thoughts she didn't want to think of what her chances were what with all these ruthless people. _Please don't say anything, please don't say anything, please don't say – _

"Hey Sands, it seems like someone's been listening for awhile."

Liz turned on her heel and sprinted as quietly as she could back down the hall. Dashing inside, she tried to shut the door silently, turning the knob so the latch wouldn't make a sound when it caught –

The door slammed open. Liz fell to the floor. Every muscle quivering, she didn't dare look up. All that was in her field of vision was Sands' shoes. _If I don't get up… If I don't make a noise…_

Perhaps he heard her thundering heart, because Sands reached down and pulled Liz up by the hair. She cried out and started to struggle, making him curse.

"Geeze, Lizzie. Calm down. I didn't mean to pull your hair –" The heel of her hand connected with his chin. He let her go and she tried to put distance between them.

"Shit," Sands hissed, sliding a hand against his jaw. "You little hellcat. What was that for?"

_Oh no, I'm smarter than that._ Holding her breath, she started to edge her way along the wall, trying to get behind him. The room full of people was forgotten for the moment, and as Sands' ears were still ringing from the blow she'd managed to land, he didn't hear her. Taking her chance, she pivoted, intending to run down the hallway…

…and ran head-on into a sold chest. Her arms were caught before she could land on her rear for the second time within a minute. The man was unfamiliar, but he was having a much better time subduing her struggles than Sands had.

"You got her, Karstens?"

"Yeah."

Sands nodded and reached under his suit coat.

"No! I'm sorry. Please don't. I just want to go home to my kids. _Our_ kids. Don't ki…" Liz trailed off as Sands revealed the hated handcuffs.

"Where do you want her?" Karstens asked, bodily lifting Liz off her feet and taking her back into the room.

"There a radiator in here?"

"Just behind you and to your right."

"That'll do." Sands snapped the bracelets open and fastened them around Liz's wrists. "Can we have a moment?" he asked his henchman, and Liz watched helplessly as the other man left.

"Sheldon –"

He slapped his hand over her mouth. "I'm only going to say this once, Lizzie." His voice was almost pleasant, but it had an ugly undertone. "One, if you behave, I'll make sure you get home in one piece. Two, if I were about to kill you, there wouldn't be a room full of witnesses to hear the shot." He removed his hand. "Now stay here while I finish my business for the night, would you?"

"As if I had a choice," she said bitterly.

"That's my smart girl. I knew you'd figure it out." Wandering across the room, Sands located the TV and turned it on. "Now watch TV and don't mind what we're talking about." Then he left the room.

Liz couldn't bear it. She started to cry.

* * *

**Author's Thanks:** many, many thanks go out to **vanillafluffy** (I have a juicy heart-to-heart to come still. I can just see it now…. zones out, then snaps back Right, anyway what did you think? Can you predict what I'm going to do now? .); **Dawnie****-7** (I love the pseudo-happily-married-banter I can get away with. It seems very much like Sands.); **quick29** (It's good to be queen. This isn't quite a cliffie, but I resisted because of the last chapter. Because I really wanted to end this one as Sands came in. evil grin); **Little** **Fox** (I hope you find this installment worth the wait – it's the longest chapter yet! – and I hope everyone is still in character. Hard to tell when everyone in sight is having mood swings.); **Lynx** (aww…I don't know if I deserve monster reviews, but I'm not going to turn them away either. ;) Sands is a smeep, but he was a smeep in the movie and we loved him there. I mentioned in the original bit of this fic before it ran away with me that Sands had wanted to be a better father than his father has been…and it turns out that he hasn't. But he regrets that in a way, and you're right, he's not sure what to do about that.); **Malakhim** (I've never thought as myself as respecting my characters, but I suppose I do sometimes think, "why would they do that? that's ridiculous," when I'm thinking up plots. I liked that bit of insight. .); **Kitty** **Kisser** (lol…if you've got printed versions of my fics, you're one up on me. Of course, I obsess about proofreading and editing them about 50,000 times. sigh); **Spoofmaster** (Thanks for pointed out that POV error. That's the problem with starting a POV and then not finishing it for a few days…you forget what you're doing. That should be all fixed now.); **misc** (see? I was nice this time around and didn't write such a big cliffie. .); **Charlotte** (there was just something about the way that Sands finally did the decent thing and told Chicle-boy to run that made me wonder if perhaps he hadn't already had a soft spot for children. shrugs Thus, Sands the family man. And of course, while he's off gallivanting around Mexico, someone would have to be worrying about the kids, and the car payments…); **Merrie** (that's the nice thing about writing – you never seem to run out of fall-out. . Fall out from the last chapter, fall out from this chapter…heck, this could go on forever.); **Arenas** (I know very well you're not the "slightly mean" type. With Sands as your Johnny, you're bound to be worse than that. :P); **AJB** (like I've said in the past – POV changes keep the author interested. ;) Or at least they keep _this_ author interested.); **Cayenne Pepper Powder** (it's you! It's really you:P Nice to hear from you again. I must say that this chapter is in part dedicated to you because I got your review and though, "Man…it's been forever since I've updated that fic." So I got my butt in gear and here's the new chapter. Thanks for the kick in the pants. .) 


	5. Chapter Four

**Author's Note: **okay, I'm going out of order, but I needed to write something and this is what I got. Don't worry, I do have an outline for my next chapter of Fractured Secrets, and I plan on writing that next. nods

Author's thanks at end.

* * *

"The truth? You can't use the truth. Have you tested it yet?"

Sands raised an eyebrow in Riley's direction. The woman had always had an overwhelming capacity for drama and getting burned didn't help any.

It was long past midnight – and most people's sobriety levels – and once the subject of the rat-bastard who'd sold them all out had been exhausted for the time being…

_Why couldn't MacIntyre have made it tonight?_ Sands though sourly as he finished off his third beer. Robbo passed him another, but he didn't open it. Tipsy was acceptable. Being drunk was not. Especially when his colleagues were pumping him for information about Liz.

"Don't be ridiculous, Riley. None of us tell the truth anymore. Hasn't Price proved that 'truth' is a commodity?" Karstens' voice was dark, evoking scowls from those agents who were both close enough and aware enough to overhear. "Sands knows better than to tell a civilian the truth."

_Actually,_ Sands thought, _it's information that's so valuable. Truth isn't worth sh–_

"Oh, so now we're taking the X-Files approach to life? Trust no one?" Riley's voice was scornful.

Karstens muttered something about how the FBI had stolen that from the CIA and Sands found himself smirking. That was until Riley said, "That's probably how you've found yourself served with divorce papers three times."

"Aw, keep your nose to yourself. You're just upset that you were number one."

"Actually, I think that's beside the point, since we're talking about _Sands_ and _his_ problems –"

"Since when is my personal life fodder for the gossip mill?" Sands drawled, interrupting the once happy couple as he reached for his cigarettes.

"Well, bringing said 'personal life,' and then having a rather loud argument with it certainly bumps you to the top of the list," Robbo drawled back, sliding a lighter across the table.

Sands put a hand to his ear. "Oh, do you hear that?" All conversation stopped. "Wait, is that…no, it couldn't…but it is. Yeah, that's the sound of I don't give a damn."

"Lighten up –"

"I'm trying," Sands muttered, bringing the flame to the tip of his cancer stick. Robbo keep talking over him, paying this quip no mind at all.

" – we've all had a hard time, what with one after another of us dropping like flies. If discussing your marital problems help us unwind, I say it's your duty to make sure that next time we can all hear a bit more clearly."

"Give it a break, Roberts," Riley said in a disgusted voice. "She's been dragged into a situation not of her own making. I doubt that any of us are incapable of sympathizing considering what Price did to us."

"Yeah, well she's not missing anything, now is she?" Sands growled, fed up. Until MacIntyre got there with the location of Price's compound, this was all moot.

"You mean other than her children?" Riley helped herself to a cigarette. "That came through loud and clear. Then there is of course, the fact that she's been missing a husband for the past –"

"And what should I have done about that?" Sands hissed. "Gone home every weekend after I'd managed to reach deep cover? Or perhaps I should have called her every night, and let the phone record speak for itself to whoever chose to investigate? We all knew the risks we'd be running, physical and those to our relationships –"

"Yeah, but most of our significant others knew about them too."

For a moment Sands considered shooting the woman across from him, but then thought better of it. They were going to need every agent. He settled for flipping her off.

"Yeah, I love you too. Now, are you going to talk to her or do you want to end up like me?"

"That would be a trick, wouldn't it?" Sands resented that people were telling him how to treat his own wife. Just because he hadn't been able to get away as cleanly –

_Yeah. **Couldn't.** Is that what I'm telling myself?_ Sands snuffed his cigarette out on the table and let his head hang back as he contemplated Liz. The tide of conversation ebbed around him as his disinterest caused the subject to change entirely. Something about the World Series if he wasn't mistaken. Definitely not something he was interested in.

The truth was that if he'd _really_ wanted, he could have gotten away cleanly. He could have left Liz at the bus station with a ticket home. After all, she wouldn't have had any clue as to his whereabouts. She wouldn't have known that he was meeting up with a dozen other rogue agents. She hadn't known anything. But now she knew more than would be healthy for her – for _him_ – if he sent her back. By bringing her with him this far, he'd ensured that he _couldn't_ send her away without endangering the entire operation. And if some small part of him hadn't known that, he'd eat his gun.

"Going to bed already?" Roberts quipped as Sands suddenly stood. "Do you want to take a 'Do Not Disturb' sign with you, or do you mind if we pop in now and then?"

Sands heard the leer in his colleague's voice, and replied in kind. "Feel free to pop your head in, but you won't be getting it back."

* * *

It's with more than a little caution that I open the door to the bedroom I'll be sharing with Liz. Not because I think she's about to attack me – she can't – but because I can't help but think the worst of what my recent bout of self-revelation will lead to.

I _am_ going to tell her the truth about everything. I know that much. It's my choice. I want to do it now before I start feeling the uncomfortable pressure of _guilt_. The thought doesn't scare me, but it does annoy me, and actually feeling guilty will only annoy me further. If I've stupidly dragged Liz into this – which I undoubtedly have – then she needs to understand the situation. Enough innocents have been killed because of my interfering, and I've apparently grown a conscience where Liz is concerned. As if my unconscious need to have her with me wasn't stupid enough.

Not a sound reaches my ears as I cautiously make my way across the room, searching for a table and a chair in which to sit. That's why it's such a surprise when I hear a soft rustle and then find myself falling flat on my face. I lay stunned on the floor for a moment, trying to absorb the knowledge that Lizzie just tripped me. I can hear her breathing heavily, as if she's…afraid.

Whatever else I ever wanted, I never wanted her to be afraid of me.

"You never cease to sweep me off my feet," I drawl as I manage to compose myself.

Far from placated, Liz hisses, "You fu– "

"I'm sorry, okay?" Stunned silence issues from Lizzie's quarter, or at least I assume she's stunned and not unable to speak for silent, disbelieving laughter. It's a little late to rethink my modus operandi now though, so I continue even as I curse myself for a fool. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

"Why?" she challenges, her voice tight with the anger that must have spurred her on to attack me.

_She didn't used to be so…combative._ _How much must she hate me?_ Enough to make some of her actions completely unexpected.

I speak to hide my discomposure. "I'd say that I never meant to bring you this far, but that would be a lie."

"Oh, so you've suddenly discovered that you've missed me? You want things to be the way they used to? Is this some misguided attempt to make me 'understand?'"

I admit that her understanding would be nice, but it's not something I'm holding my breath waiting for.

"Don't be ridiculous, Lizzie. When I realized how much I missed you, I stopped writing. It was the only way for me to actually get the job done. When you work for the CIA –"

"The time to explain all this was when you first got hired."

" – when you work for the CIA," I repeat, "and you have to go into what's called 'deep cover,' you have to sever all ties to _anyone_ important in order to survive. The operative's safety comes first and at any expense, because it takes time and money to replace the greenhorns who are always thinking about their sweet young things back home."

She's quiet for a long time. My words probably provided even less comfort than they were intended to. I know how her mind works; I know how she's mulling over my words and wondering how much merit they have. _Not enough._ Words were all she wanted then. Words would have been enough to pacify her. Now words are all I have and they don't even begin to cover the sins her eyes see. The irony doesn't escape me.

"Why are you telling me all this, Sheldon?" I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders when her words come out merely petulant instead of hostile. "What does it matter now?"

"It matters because I didn't shove enough money at you to get a ticket home when I had the chance."

"I can still go home –"

"No, you can't. It doesn't matter if you promise to keep your mouth shut about my location and about how I've met up with a dozen other rogue agents. Now that you've come this far, you…I…_we_…have more to worry about than my former employers. And that's why I'm telling you this. I can't send you home, and you can't stay without some small idea of what's going on. Not to mention I can't focus on my job if we're constantly battling."

"I didn't know I was important enough to be distracting," she mutters. _I_ grind my teeth and wonder if she was listening to my not-so-little confession of five minutes past.

"All flippancy aside," I reply once my irritation is under control. "It's not exactly the weather I came in here to discuss with you." My hand thrusts into my pocket and comes out with a small key in its grasp. "Now, I'm going to let you go, but only with the understanding that you keep your limbs to yourself until after I've told my story."

"Is it a long one?" she asks in an airy, mocking voice. "Because I don't know how long I can restrain myself."

I stop short of her cuffed hands. "Oh, then perhaps we'd all feel better if I left you where you are. Would you like that?"

Silence… "No."

"Alright then." I make quick work of the handcuffs, then help her to her feet since her legs must be more than a little stiff. She pulls away but not before my fingers brush against a damp patch of cloth near her neck. I frown, then ask, "Were you crying?"

"Will you die of regret if I say yes?"

_Never mind._

* * *

Liz sat quietly for a long time, trying to digest the tale that Sands had just told her. Her mind was buzzing with information, like an ambitious reader that'd read a spy thriller too quickly. In fact, Sands' story came out sounding more like a bestseller than the truth. For a moment Liz contemplated the possibility that she was just being fed a pack of lies… But he'd been so deadly _serious_ during his recitation. There had been no drawling, no smirking, no wicked quirk of an eyebrow.

He'd started by telling her about the operation he'd left her to complete five years ago. Briefly he spoke about making connections, about blackmailing and bribing people, about infiltrating the very society he was there to turn on its ear. The CIA's "shadow men" were well named, and he was very good at his job. He became less than a shadow. He became an echo. And to Liz's eyes, she could _see_ him becoming no more than a soft voice in the darkness of the room; when the fantasy had become too real, she'd had to turn on some lights.

He'd told her _everything._ How after awhile he'd even ceased to feel. About how he went about his job with impunity. How he'd started to gather power for more than his job. How his priorities had changed. About how he'd changed, because you can't be seeped in that kind of life for long without being corrupted. And how he hadn't fought the corruption. He'd named the day that he'd decided that he wouldn't be going back to his family.

Those were details that Liz could have done without. Especially since he described them with such dispassion. _The facts ma'am. Just the facts._ She wished she could interrupt him then and there, wished she could cover her ears and talk over him. Wished she could slap him, rail at him, beat on his chest. Anything to repay him for the hurt he was causing her… But she knew from the dreamy quality in his voice that if she interrupted him now, she wouldn't hear the end of the story. And just because she didn't like how the plot was unfolding didn't mean that she didn't want to hear the end. Didn't _need_ to hear the end. It was like a widow being forced to watch a recreation of her husband's murder. It made her very teeth ache, but there was some kind of desperate need to know that kept her lips still.

"For a finale as big as this one," his soft voice said impartially, "there should have been a score of operatives around to watch the curtain drop. When I called for backup, someone should have on my tail within half an hour. But no one came." A muscle tightened in his jaw. "Even strapped to that table, I was stalling. Of course I'd heard the rumors of a series of other operations going belly up. But they were rumors. Or at least I thought they were." He pointed at his shades. "Afterwards, I called again and the line had been terminated. My Company contact – Phillip Masden – had disappeared. All the officers in Mexico had been hit. One managed to make it across the border. One managed to make it to the U.S. embassy in Mexico City. One was still missing last I heard. The rest are dead. Of course, I didn't find any of this out until I was resting comfortably in Langly and the spinner of blame had come to rest on me. I was one of two survivors, and Weaver hadn't known who any of her compatriots were."

"You didn't…?"

"What do you think?"

For some reason Liz felt like she was being tested, so she took her time in answering. He'd confessed to killing in cold blood. He'd confessed to purposely setting people up, at times with dire consequences. He'd confessed to planning to leave her, to take away the support she needed to raise his children. And now he wanted her to judge whether or not he'd sell out his coworkers?

But Liz knew that despite anything else, Sands was smart. If he had any intention of selling out his backup, it'd be once he was away safely.

"No…I don't think you did it."

Sands muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Took you long enough," but he relaxed a bit. Liz wondered if her opinion of him actually mattered enough to make her silence seem condemning.

The story continued into the early morning. One of the officers that Sands had gone though the academy with – whose name was Ulrich – had come to visit him in the hospital. He'd said that this wasn't the first time a failed operation had been pinned on the point man. That seven other top priority international endeavors had bitten the dust. Starting in Belarus and a few other of the smaller dictator run Eastern European countries, key counter-insurgency/counter-terrorism/drug trafficking-operations had been biting the dust one after the other. Now US officers in Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia, the Philippines, et cetera, were on the run with bounties over their heads. He'd said that there was evidence that it was _one_ person behind the entire mess, not just a rather large crop of bag eggs. Since things had started on a small scale and then expanded to top priority projects over a period of just a few years… Well, Sands' friend had just hinted that he'd had information that would help out Sands and the other officers who were hiding on US soil.

However this friend had gotten into a car accident just a few days after talking to Sands. When he'd finally broken out of the hospital, Sands had gone to the friend's apartment straight away only to find it had been ransacked, and without any other recourse, he'd headed to Virginia. On the road he'd been contacted by Roberts who said that they'd managed to get the information from Ulrich's apartment a few hours after the fatal wreck. Things were good to go. They knew that Masden had been the one to sell Sands out. More importantly, they knew that Masden had simply been a gopher; they knew who the big cheese himself was.

"His name is Price." At this point Sands got up and crossed to the nearest window. He opened it a crack and lit up. "He was a trainer at the academy. It was a matter of some talk how he liked to keep in touch with the officers who made it. 'How unusual,' we all said, but none of us really thought that he was going to use the information to make himself a tidy bundle."

"I don't understand," Liz whispered. "What kind of profit can he make?"

Sands laughed softly. "Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie." He shook his head. "Espionage in the international arena is a lot like a good game of Battleship. It's all about knowing where your opponent is, and whether he's got a lifeboat or an aircraft carrier. And there are factions outside or inside every government – including our own – that will pay very good money to find that out. We're talking tens of millions of dollars for nothing more than a list of names and coordinates."

"But if all of this is true, then why don't you just go to the authorities?"

Again Sands laughed that soft laugh that let her know that he despaired for her. "Price is _very well_ thought of. A war hero from Vietnam and Korea, a former name for director of the CIA, was narrowly defeated in his run for Vermont's democratic seat in the Senate, and friends with all the brass on the Hill. In short, he _is_ the 'authorities.' Not to mention that he's smart enough to always act through middle men – sometimes three or four. He never has any contact with the officers who get burned. There's no phone records to indicate he had any contact with the officers who go turncoat. His bank accounts don't show the numbers that would prove he's got a source of income apart from his rather substantial pension."

"But if you have evidence –"

"We have enough evidence to prove that he's involved with something shady, but that's not enough to get anyone to investigate a man of his power. We're on our own."

* * *

It's all too much. It's been a long day, full of travel and exhausting emotions. I didn't get to call my babies. It's all I can do to even stay awake at this point, yet I know sleep won't be coming any time soon. So I might as well use my waking hours for some purpose, especially since Sheldon is in an informative mood.

"Why are we here? Is this where Price is?" I still don't know what I think about this vigilante justice that's going on in my presence. I don't know what I think about finding out just how lost my husband has become. I don't know anything. I don't think my questions will help sort any of this out, but I can't help but ask anyway.

"No," Sheldon replies, flicking his cigarette butt into a nearby trashcan. "We're really not sure where he is. This is just the meeting place. Some reconnaissance is supposed to be coming in some time tomorrow."

"And why can't I go home?"

"You know too much. We suspect that Price is aware that someone's on his tail. I'm sure he knows by now that you're with me, and I'm on the run. And that makes me very dangerous. If I send you home, there's no guarantee that you'll be safe there."

"And you think Chris and Amanda are safe?"

Sands frowned. "Do you think I'd sit here and do nothing if I didn't? Or that I would tell you?" My question must have disturbed him because he lights up again. "I might not be in the running for father of the year, but I'm not about to let innocents –"

"You've changed your philosophy then? Harming innocents didn't bother you just a few months ago." Even I can hear the bite in my voice.

"Kids are different."

"How do you know? Even if you believe that, what makes you think Price does?"

"Oh, I know Price doesn't. But the kids are currently being looked after by an entire contingency of CIA agents, and they're on US soil. They won't be any safer just because you're at their side."

"But –"

"Lizzie!" He sounds truly angry now. "Do I have to spell it out for you? Well here it is: to Price you're nothing more than a tool, and tools are not indispensable. Price would have no problem with ordering one of his middle men to torture you if he thought it would get him results. You're nothing to him."

My throat is tight but the point needs to be made. "Just awhile ago you were telling me that I meant the same to you."

He's always been eerily aware of what I've been thinking, and this time is no exception. "Don't go fishing, Lizzie. You might not like what you find."

**_I_**_ might not like what I find?_ A disbelieving laugh escapes me. "Why does my safety mean anything to you then?"

"I've already told you –"

"No!" God, why did I marry someone who's so good at getting under my skin? "Don't feed me some line about how I have too much damaging information. If I know anything that he doesn't already suspect, then he's not too bright, is he?"

"What do you want me to say then? You're the one who wants the divorce."

I gasp, completely broadsided. Why I didn't I see that one coming?

"What's wrong, Lizzie?" Sheldon smiles unpleasantly. "Don't you like having that sprung on you?"

"You –"

"I only decided not to come home _after_ Masden passed it on to me that you were trying to get divorce papers to me."

"I _wanted_ you to come home!"

"Fine way to show it."

"How else was I supposed to get your attention?" _Why can't I feel my feet? Mid-argument is an inconvenient time to have an out-of-body experience._ "You were ignoring all my letters –"

"Don't you understand anything?" He's yelling back now. We've only fought like this once or twice, and they're ugly blots on my memory. It doesn't matter that during times like this is when we have the most honest communication. I still don't like it. "What do you think would have happened to you if anyone had found out that I had a wife I actually cared about?"

"Oh, don't give me that. You were only worried about your own skin."

"What did my skin matter? I was already dead."

I blink as his last statement rings oddly in my ears. "What do you mean you were already dead?"

"Geeze, Lizzie. Don't you understand that I _meant_ it when I promised to be right back?" He rubs a hand over his face and slides down the wall to take a seat on the floor. "I was so in love with you. Besotted. There's a few people here who will vouch for me. I promised to be right back, and I tricked myself into believing it even when I knew better. I knew that there was a good chance that the night before I left was goodbye. I didn't sleep a wink that night. I spent every hour walking from bedroom to bedroom, watching you all sleep."

I sit down on the mattress as my knees give out. How can he be saying all of this now? Why can't we fight for a little longer? It takes less emotion. It's not as risky. Not as dangerous.

"I was going to make something of myself, Lizzie. And then I was going to come back and take a stateside job. We got married so young and I wanted to _do_ things."

"I'm sorry we were such a burden," I intone. My ears still seem to be ringing. The last time I felt like this, I'd just found out I was pregnant with Chris.

"You weren't."

"That's not what you're making it sound like."

Sheldon sighs, or at least I think I hear him sigh. "I was selfish. I wanted both. I thought it would work. But hardly any officers who go into deep cover can make it work. There's too much compartmentalization. The family that's held frozen in memory isn't the one that we come back to, and the shock…" He shrugs. "It's usually too much. Tempers flare because kids have grown up and grown attitudes. The significant other has a seed of resentment hiding in them somewhere, and the officer feels that they're misunderstood because they went through everything on their own. I've always liked to be ahead of the game, but damn, Lizzie… I didn't think you'd press for a divorce before I could at least piss you off in person."

"I told you. I just wanted you to come home. Once you were home…" It's my turn to shrug.

"What? Once I was home we'd work it all out?"

"It was worth a try." My voice is immeasurably dull. Feeling is returning to my feet, but my body feels leaden. Like the earth's gravity has increased while we've been talking. I don't want to breathe, but my lungs seem to have enough air for me to whisper, "I just wanted my husband back."

Sheldon pulls himself to his feet. He seems to be feeling the extra gravity too. An age passes before he's standing in front of me, arms held away from his sides. "Well here I am. Still want me?"

"Should I?" I ask his opinion because he knows himself better than I do these days. I wonder if my voice sounds as wistful to me as it does to him.

"No." Sheldon shakes his head and his arms sink back down to his side. "No, you shouldn't."

* * *

They went to bed soon after this. Liz in her bed, Sands in his. It seemed that there was more distance between them than simply the space between the beds for all that they'd spent the better part of three hours talking.

Liz had been right earlier when she'd thought that sleep would be a long time in coming. She couldn't help worrying at all the tiny insights and glaring facts that had been thrown in her lap. Homesickness and a need to check in on her children didn't help put her mind to rest either. She'd never been gone from home for this long. She rolled over, punched her pillow, and tried to find a more comfortable position to sleep in. Her husband didn't help matters; he was sound asleep – she could tell from his soft snores – across from her. Why did he get to sleep easily when she was tormented by her own second guesses?

Sands was right. She shouldn't want him. But he kept showing glimpses of who he'd been five years ago, and she'd loved that man very dearly…even if he did exasperate her. _How different could it be,_ she wondered as the sun slowly rose. _How different could it be to get used to him now than it would have been to be at his side as he changed? Everyone changes with time – there's no way to stop that. Experience is a school that's never out of session. Maturity sets in. Crises come and go. Even if he'd never left, I would have woken up one day to find myself next to a Sheldon who was different from the one I'd married._

At the same time she knew that _had_ they been together, the change would have been gradual. Hardly noticeably at all. In this case it really _was_ like waking up next to a different person than she'd gone to bed with.

But was difficulty any reason to give up? If it was, there wouldn't be a parent alive who hadn't abandoned their kids. There wouldn't be a person who hadn't dropped out of school or left a job. People would all die of suicide and not natural causes.

_No. I will not give up just because things are difficult._ Deciding she wouldn't be sleeping for a long time yet, Liz sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. Sands sat up at the same time she did, reaching for a weapon.

"Don't," she murmured. "I can't sleep. I'm going to go check out the bookshelf."

Sands grunted, but laid back down.

Appropriately enough, Liz found a copy of Alice in Wonderland on the bookshelf. She shook her head, but took it back with her. As she cracked open the cover, she thought to herself, _Time. I just need a little bit of time. Then I'll know if I can reconcile myself to who he's become or not. I don't need to know him completely. I just need to know that it'll be possible for me to be able to._

* * *

**Author Thanks:** my many thanks to…**Winged** **Seraph** (If you're like me, you're leery to start new fics that are by authors you like, because if you hate it, then your opinion of the author is lowered. Or I could simply be 'unique.' . I've seen one or two fics – and I mean only one or two – that dealt with Sands having a family back in the states, but they never went anywhere. A chapter or two in, even the authors lost interest, or so it seems. I'm glad that you're enjoying mine, and I know that reviews help keep _my _interest. ;P laughs); **Dawnie****-7** (The simple solutions are always the best in my way of thinking. nods Conflict is what keeps a story moving…there's certainly plenty of it in this chapter. .); **Scarlett** (I hope I'm not killing you too badly, because if you die before STtHG is finished, I'm going to cry my eyes out. laughs at very small joke You know how much I enjoy a challenge, and giving Sands something of an actual _past_ seemed like a challenge all right. I think you're right about this version of Sands…he seems more Sandsy than my last Sands. :P Don't worry about reviewing, especially since I haven't been doing such a good job of that either. Suffice it to say that you're killing me with where you left Sands.); **Spoofmaster** (I'm very glad that you're enjoying everything.) **vanillafluffy** (Well, I think the last thing anyone could accuse Sands of is having a lack of cohones. ;D You're right, this isn't the kind of fic where Sands contemplating corrupt lessons could mean anything good…but you never know what might come to me later and be posted elsewhere. looks angelic); **quick29** (These CIA agents are like the lost boys almost, with Sands as Peter. Other than the fact that these lost boys are murderous and wanted by the law. shrugs Now that I have all this out of my system, _now_ I can get to FS and PS…I hope. I'd really like to finish those this year.); Arenas (Sands being suspicious…yes, that is a bit surprising. :P Scary is fun, drama is fun, angst is best. I'm not sure which of those won out this chapter.); **Lynx** (I'm a fast reader, and HP isn't exactly on the same comprehension level as say Lord of the Rings or War and Peace. Of course, I prefer my light reading to heavy reading. The only reason I write Sands so well is because I've had lots, and lots, and lots of experience. If I can get you to almost but not quite revile Sands, that's quite a complement, because that's how RobbieR got us all hooked.); **Cayenne Pepper Powder** (I love reviews whenever I get them, so don't worry about being 'late.' And I did rush out a new chapter ahead of my other fics, so this time around you're going to have to be patient. Don't want the fics to start pouting and thinking I have a favorite, do we?) 


	6. Chapter Five

**Author's Note:** Well, this took me a bit longer to write than I thought it would, but I got stuck halfway through on a bit of a sticky personality point. Luckily I worked through it with a bit of help. And here's the chapter, longer than I intended, but with not as much in it as I'd hope. Oh well, that means more chapters down the road.

Author's thanks at end.

* * *

_Sure, murder is messy, and we'd probably have to pay for damage to the room, but you know what they say about desperate times. No matter how crude, murder is rather effective. _

_And just what has driven me to murder?_ My lips curl sourly as I ponder that answer; that grimace must have coincided with some witticism from the peanut gallery because my companions laugh. They get a sardonic grin in return – as if I know what they're talking about – but my thoughts rebelliously stick to their guns. Ha-ha, guns. No, that's _much_ too crude for my darling wife.

She's going to drive me completely insane with her silent staring.

Maybe I should have an award printed up for her. Something about managing to accomplish what even torture couldn't.

It started this morning. I didn't expect a "good morning" after last night's discussion, but Liz has always been obliging when its come to falling for a verbal baiting. I can usually count on getting at least a growl out of her. But she didn't respond in any way to my attempts to get her to speak. I'd almost believed that perhaps I really was alone and totally delusional in my belief that I could feel someone watching me. But when I dropped my towel to get dressed, the feeling had vanished, leaving me confident that Liz _was_ in the room with me. The minx. And not only was I reassured of her presence, but her reaction sparked a suspicion in my devious little heart; it's not just my physical proximity that intimidates her. It's _me_. She's not keeping her distance from me because she's afraid that I might hurt her. She's keeping her distance because she's all too aware of me. In the best possible way.

I played to that.

Letting her think that her ruse had worked – she caught on quickly to the concept of silence as camouflage – I took my time getting dressed. No matter how proud I was of her for attempting to outmaneuver me, no matter how amused, I wasn't going to let her win so easily. It wasn't as if I'm ashamed of nudity after all, and I thought that perhaps the sight of my healing bullet wounds would win me some sympathy. Who knew. Women could be like that. And Liz certainly deserved to be as uncomfortable as I could make her. It was her idea to start the game after all.

But even the sight of the naked body that used to drive her mad with lust – okay, I admit to a bit of exaggeration there – didn't pry a single sound from her throat. So I tried another tack. I started to ignore her. I got ready for my day as if I hadn't a care in the world – because I'm always up for a good game of cat and mouse – taking my time to do things the hard way. I'm pretty sure that I managed to chase her around the room in my quest; once or twice I felt a slight breeze as if she'd stepped out of my way at the last moment. But she never spoke. And she didn't touch me. For some reason that irritated me, so I quit the small bedroom…

…only to feel her follow after me. Apparently she was brave enough to play games with me, but not brave enough to face my colleagues without me. I was tempted to make some sort of comment about hiding behind skirts, but I held my tongue. If she wanted to talk, she could break the silence between us.

The common room was empty. _Great_, I thought as I hesitated. Everyone was still sleeping off the night before. I was on the verge of making several very unpleasant wake-up calls when a door opened.

"Shep! Mrs. Shep! Fancy seeing you two about so early." Roberts' voice was full of innuendo. "We were taking bets on when you'd emerge from your love nest."

I heard Liz grinding her teeth. She must have been very close behind me for me to hear that. I didn't overlook – or underlook for that matter – the fact that she overcame her dislike of me in the face of strangers; the old tenderness started to rise. I didn't bother fighting it, but I didn't act on it either. Or at least, I didn't let anyone see me act on it.

"Not even I can go all night without food, Robbo. Why don't I smell any coffee?"

He laughed. "Coffee wasn't part of my detail. I got the donuts. Weaver was in charge of coffee. If the lush ever wakes up."

"Isn't that like the pot calling the kettle black?" I stroll over to the table and take a seat. Liz follows again, although her footsteps sound reluctant. I roll my head back on my neck when she doesn't take a seat. "Lizzie, sit your ass down." I can just imagine the seething look in her eyes, the tight line of her lips, the flush of anger on her cheeks, the way her nostrils are undoubtedly flaring… She really is one of those women who are sexy when they're furious. "You're making your dear husband feel like a brute."

The statement she makes when she takes a seat a chair or two down from me is that there's a reason I feel that way.

Roberts laughs, but doesn't say anything other than, "What'll it be?"

"Maple bar. And Lizzie will have a cinnamon roll – no raisins – if you thought to get any." Undaunted, I stand and move over a seat so that I'm next to my wife. She jumps up and I hear her move around the table. There's the sound of liquid pouring. I listen, then get up and follow. "Lizzie…" A paper cup of something cool is thrust into my hand; slender fingers brush against mine, and then she's gone. Oh how I'd _love_ to be able to roll my eyes.

"Hey, Roberts. Lemme borrow your Stetson. I should be the Mad Hatter to Lizzie's unparalleled March Hare." The next time I try to take a seat next to her, she doesn't run. She would have liked to, I felt that, but she didn't.

Who am I to argue with progress?

That was the last progress of the morning though. As more and more of my hangover-suffering companions emerged, Liz left the table. I wanted to commend her courage for not abandoning the room altogether – the feeling of her eyes on me continued without a break, giving proof to her continued presence – but she obviously didn't want anything to do with me for the moment. Perhaps she had reverted to her formerly prudish self in the company of people she obviously didn't approve of. Perhaps she wanted space. Perhaps she just wanted to get away from me, but wasn't brave enough to let me out of her sight.

While I cared about her reasons for not retreating into our room at one point in time, the impulse passed a few hours ago. Now I simply want her to _stop_. She's actually starting to unnerve me, and that in turn is leading into more and more outrageous behavior.

_She probably thinks I've gone off the deep end._ Not that I don't have cause of course, but the thought of her thinking that raises my hackles. So we agreed that I'm not the man she married. That doesn't give her leave to think I'm as mad as the March Hare I labeled her.

I have to do something.

Murder really _is_ rather permanent. Pity.

Oh well, it's more fun to use subtler methods.

* * *

With a sly grin, Sands started tapping his fingers against the table. Liz was good at being stoic and aloof…but only because she hadn't really been tested. And Sands was tired of her wraith-like behavior. Not only was it annoying him, but she'd drawn the attention of his colleagues. And they were starting to snicker. So therefore it was in his – and therefore her – best interest to make Liz stop. And he knew just how he was going to do it. 

But being blind did have its disadvantages, one of which was that as long as she stayed quiet, Sands really had no clue as to where she was. He could ask, but that would put her on alert. His plan wouldn't be nearly as effective if she knew he was on the prowl. If he had any confidence that she would obey, he would simply call her over. But Lizzie was stubborn; despite the fact that she'd unobtrusively helped him several times that morning, she seemed to be as wary of him as a chicken was a fox.

Poultry analogies aside, her goose was about to be cooked. Preferably over an open flame.

His random table-tapping evolved into a form of "pig Latin/Morse code" that he and Roberts had used to play around with back in the academy. Hopefully the cowboy hadn't forgotten about it.

/Covert ops?\ came Roberts' reply to Sands' insulting salutation.

/Very. Seen my wife?\

/Couldn't help. She'd a looker.\

/Stop panting, horndog. Where is she?\

There was a taunting silence, then Roberts replied. /No poaching. Got it. She's in the northwest corner of the room.\

As if that helped. Without knowing what direction he currently faced, compass points held little meaning for him. /Anyone nearby?\

/Besides the potted plant your lovely bride is using for cover, there's Riley and McKennon. They talked Williams into an impromptu poker game. And they're quickly robbing him –\

/Blind?\ It amused Sands that even his brash associate couldn't use the word in his presence.

/Something like that. Why's the missus on the warpath?\

/She's not. Just irritated. But she'll likely be on the warpath soon enough. Wish me luck.\

/Off to beard the lion?\

/Off to screw with the lioness.\

Sands rose as Roberts tapped out his parting shot. /If you fail, I won't waste a second taking her mind off you with hot monkey loving.\

There wasn't much to say to that except to laugh uproariously. Liz wasn't the "monkey loving" type.

He prowled around the room, taking the time to talk with the others he came across, and to flirt with a young agent named Biaselli who'd come in with Riley. The gaze on his back became even more intense when he did so; Sands smirked. Liz might not want him, but apparently she didn't want anyone else to have him either.

The smirk disappeared when he pondered just what she'd say if she knew about Ajedrez.

Sands left Biaselli and stood near the poker game for a bit, listening to the action. His back was to Lizzie's hiding place. The only reason he knew she wouldn't bolt was that he was too close to allow her an easy escape.

Liz noticed.

She'd watched him as he'd made a circuit of the room. For some reason it'd made her uneasy. He seemed to simply be stretching his legs, but Liz was well aware that he rarely did anything for simple purposes. And his stride gave him away; he made more use of his hips – as if tauntingly reminding her of where her legs had spent so many nights – when he was up to something.

That he stopped a mere foot from her corner only made her all the more suspicious.

Sands quickly grew bored with his pretense now that he was so close to his goal. "Williams. I'd fold if I were you. McKennon is cheating." Then he took a calculated step backwards – although he didn't fear a reprisal since Doug McKennon had cheating down to such an art form that he only did it to see if anyone could catch him at it – and ran into Liz. He heard her gasp – he must have stepped on her toe – as he turned and caught her arms. Her body froze under his hands.

For a moment he wondered at her reaction. Surely she didn't think he was going to smack her around. A shifting of his left hand revealed the reason for her reaction; the heel of his hand was lightly brushing against the side of her breast. Sands had to fight the predatory grin that naturally came to his face.

Liz swallowed hard as she tried to ease away from her suddenly dangerous husband. It'd be a lie to say that his post-shower…display…hadn't gotten to her that morning. But despite the dry mouth and the – among other areas of her body – throat-tightening awareness that his unabashed nudity had caused, Liz had never let the purpose behind it fade from her mind. It had simply been another game, another play for power in their struggle. And she knew that this was more of the same…

…even though she wished it weren't.

For a split second she wanted him to express _sincere_ desire for her company, not this undercurrent of mocking humor that was in his touch.

"Hello, wife." He moved closer to her, backing her further into the corner. "Have you been enjoying yourself?"

No. She'd simply been watching him; the need to know if their marriage could be salvaged was strong. And she'd wanted to act while the honesty of the night before was still fresh between them.

When she didn't answer, Sands ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders. "Lizzie," he said in a soft sing-song voice. "You've been watching me all day. I can only assume that you want something from me." His left hand stayed on her shoulder while his right started to gently stroke her face. "Do you _desire_ something?" he whispered into her ear.

Liz shivered as he all but read her mind. "Don't."

Sands grinned. "Why not?"

When she turned her head away from the tantalizing heat of his breath on her unprotected skin, Sands brushed his lips against hers.

Liz froze.

Sands froze.

Their lips were separated by no more than a quarter of an inch. Close enough for each to feel the heat of the other.

If Liz hadn't panicked and tried to push him away, Sands probably would have backed off on his own. He was more than capable of recognizing a dangerous situation. But her attempt to put distance between them stirred up irrational anger in his gut. _Why can't she just be near me? _Before he was aware of what he was doing, Sands had Liz's lips – along with the rest of her body – crushed against his.

His kiss trapped her soft whimper.

His anger turned into a hard fist of lust, and that lust made him aware of how tense Liz was. She obviously was not enjoying herself. His need whispered that he could change that.

"Lizzie." Sands' fingers combed through her short hair, stroked her temples, roved over the soft skin of her neck. His sinuses burned with tears he was unable to shed. All because she wouldn't kiss him back.

Desperate, his lips gentled, pleading with hers to soften. To part. To play with his. When they did, he pressed his advantage, forcing his knee between her legs so he could get closer still. His body had missed hers, longed for hers, conjured sweetly dark dreams of hers during long, sticky-hot, lonely nights. Every other part of him had managed to push her out. But his body remembered and responded to the one that belonged solely to it.

"Lizzie." His fevered kisses moved to the hollow behind her ear as his hands gently tilted her head back. Her own hands were bunched in his shirt. She was trembling. The minute vibrations were sweeter than her skin –

"Sheldon, no." His hold was too tight. Too hot. His body was too hard. And hers was softening too quickly. She couldn't let this happen, not when he might leave her still. Not when he might still think that what she really wanted was him out of her life for good. No matter how right it felt now – and it felt so right that she'd rather die than leave his arms – this was a mistake and would hurt her in the end.

"Yes, beautiful." She'd trembled all throughout the night they'd first made love, half in terror and half in passion, neither of which she'd known how to express. All he could think was she was now trembling from the effort it took to hide her passion.

It was unacceptable.

As his mouth moved back to hers and his tongue thrust past her lips, his hand drifted down to come to rest on her breast. It was heavy, fitting so perfectly into his palm. Surely her passion couldn't be far behind –

Sands was totally unprepared for Lizzie's particular brand of passion. Her fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him back. When she bolted past him, her momentum knocked him down. As he sat on his sore ass and worked his equally sore jaw, Sands listened to Liz's retreating footsteps and wondered what the hell he'd done wrong.

* * *

My hands tremble as I lock the door behind me. I don't know _what_ just happened, but I don't think it was what Sheldon intended. If only I could _think_. 

I slide down the wall until I can sit and rest my spinning head on my knees. Yes, the kiss was good – or perhaps after five years it was not so good, just overwhelming – but it shouldn't have turned my head like that. It was just that he was so…

_Passionate? Needy?_ Once I would have believed that. Simply because it's happened on occasion. I know I'm not the type of woman who drives men insane with lust, but Sheldon used to make me feel as if I were.

Good lord. I can still feel his kiss. I can still _taste_ him on my lips.

I drag myself into the bathroom. Ignoring the tousled and well-kissed woman in the mirror, I scrub his kisses from me. At least the wash cloth is abrasive enough to replace the phantom impression Sheldon left behind. It'd not nearly enough to ease my short-term memory.

In a huff I throw down the cloth and go throw myself on the bed. A nap is in order to ease my mind. Or at least I hope it'll restore my equilibrium. I don't know what I'll do if it doesn't.

xxx xxx xxx

_ "That's it, Lizzie." Sheldon's voice is soft and rough in my ear. His arms are tight around me. I feel safe. When his lips brush against my neck, I melt back against him. _

_ "Shel," I murmur happily. "Stop distracting me. I thought you wanted me to proofread this for you." _

_ "You can do it later. Come to bed." His hands start chafing my arms. _

_ "You have to turn this in tomorrow," I demure, despite the pleasant heat he's causing. What I'd really like to do is give in to him. But he's such a procrastinator. He needs to get over that while I can still clean up after him. _

_ "Just for a bit, beautiful. Come with me." _

_ Sheldon tugs me from my seat and I let him, but not without protest. "You just got back from work. Aren't you tired?" _

_ "Too tired for you? Never." He pulls me against him, eyes sparking with mischief. His body shows me that he's not quite ready for bed. Or at least that he's not ready to go to sleep. "Smile for me, beautiful." _

_ I give him an innocent smile. He growls and pulls me closer. He bends me back over his arm and kisses me soundly. When he raises his head I feel the smile he wanted spreading across my lips. _

_ Everything shifts and I'm lying in bed with Sheldon hovering over me. I feel happy, satisfied, and tired. Not to mention idiotically pleased with myself. _

_ "You unman me," he breathes. I laugh outright and accuse him of sneaking peeks at my romance novels. He doesn't deny it. He only whispers, "You're gorgeous, Lizzie." _

_ "You're just saying that." I feel my cheeks flush. "But when you look at me like that, I believe it." _

_ This time he laughs. "You should. Because I mean it. You make me lose all control." _

_ "I don't know. I thought you were taking your time." I grin impishly at him. _

_ "Is that right, sweetness?" His grin is pure masculine evil. "Your wish is my command. I'll make you gorgeous all night if that's what you want." _

_ Of course it's what I want. I wish we could. "Sorry, Shel. I'd love to –" _

_ "**I'd** love to." _

_ I have to push him away before he can steal my wits again. "Classes and work tomorrow, and I still need to finish proofreading that paper of yours so you make the corrections during your lunch break." _

_ "It's not my fault…"_

xxx xxx xxx_  
_

I wake with a smile on my face. I often do after dreaming of my absent husband. My eyes stay closed to keep the dream from slipping away too quickly. The memory of better times always lightens the demands of yet another day of loneliness. But as I wake fully, the smile disappears. Memories are likely all I'll ever have. It's becoming more and more unlikely that he'll ever come back home…

A burst of laughter filters into the dim bedroom. That grating sounds is all I need to come back to my surroundings…and my senses. And my only _too_ present husband. Just thinking about him makes my lips tingle in the most annoying fashion. And that makes me angry like I wasn't angry before.

How…how _dare_ he do that to me? How dare he embarrass me in front of all those people? I know that he'd never take a straight line when a crooked one is available, but for just _once_ couldn't he have just _told_ me what he wanted from me without manipulating every one of my emotions? Why is he being so cruel?

Before I can think better of it or before I can talk myself out of it, I march to the door and wrench it open. That…that insensitive lout deserves a taste of his own medicine.

* * *

Halfway down the hall, common sense broke in. It was an unwelcome interruption, but Liz was realistic enough to believe that there was little she could do that would actually embarrass her husband. The man was unflappable. Not to mention quick on the draw. He'd realize what she was trying to do, and would laugh in her face. And the realization that Sands had…mauled her…just to get her to leave him alone had bruised her pride enough for one day. She didn't really want to give him cause to try again, mainly because he'd always been too persuasive for her own good. 

She had to get out of here before she had an aneurism.

As she reached the common room, Liz paused to look around. Husband and Co. were all gathered around the table, silent except for a single man who was talking softly but quickly.

Sands heard her pause in the hallway. Half his mind had been on her since her display of how to properly use a left hook. Partly because her engagement ring had left a throbbing scrape on his jaw. Partly because he'd never seen her resort to violence before. Lizzie was…had been…a gentle thing.

It irritated him that he couldn't focus.

When Liz's footsteps resumed, Sands listened carefully even though he ought to be paying attention to McIntyre. He needed to hear this information on Price and his lapdog, Masden. Very few people gathered here were willing to even consider that he could do his part in the upcoming operation. _After all,_ he thought with burning gall as he listened to Lizzie circumnavigate the room, _I'm blind._ How could he possible be of any use? Despite the fact that he knew Price better than anyone here. In his first years with the Company, he'd reported to Price himself.

About the only thing he hadn't told Liz the night before was how deeply Price's betrayal had cut.

If anyone was going to bring Price down, it was going to be him. To do that, he was going to have to prove himself to his doubters, and that meant keeping Lizzie on something of a short leash.

She didn't think he had any use either.

Rather than dwell on that sobering point, he elbowed Riley who was to his left and said in a perfectly audible voice, "Will someone ask my wife where she's going?"

There was silence for a moment – half the agents had been so focused on McIntyre that they hadn't noticed Liz's emergence – before Liz spoke.

"Is it against the law now to take walks? Although I'm not sure that anyone here has the right to gainsay me."

_Translation: who cares if you're my husband? You and your friends are outlaws, and I'm not going to let you tell me what to do._

Oh, she was mad. Odd. She didn't usually stay mad for long.

Sands let his head fall back. This certainly wasn't helping his cause. Nothing had been said yet, but sooner or later someone was going to raise an objection to his presence. Especially if he was too weak to keep his wife under control. She was hurting his image.

"Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie." He shook his head. "Why so defensive?" Sands could picture the surprise on her face. The distrust. "Just wait a bit and I'll –"

"No offense," she interrupted tightly, "but it's _you_ I need a break from."

There was soft laughter. Sands bet that he deserved it from some people, but the thought of other people laughing at him got under his skin. Yes, he was an arrogant bastard, and he could understand why other agents might want to see him be taken down _another_ notch… But not because of Lizzie. That was inexcusable on her part.

Sands elbowed Riley again.

Riley elbowed him back – rather forcibly – but spoke up just as he'd wanted her to. After all, she understood Sands' predicament. She and Roberts had been the other two members of Price's young wonder trio. Damn, talk about arrogant men…

"Biaselli, go with Mrs. Sands. We'd all feel more comfortable if she had some company. Besides, you don't need to know all this stuff. You're not going to be involved in the hit."

"Yes, mother." With a roll of her eyes, the group's youngest agent got up from the table and fetched her coat. Technically she was only a trainee, but she'd been painted with the same brush as the rest. If only they'd let her _do_ something useful.

"Let's go," she muttered to Liz.

They left quietly. Liz glanced behind her briefly; Sands was scowling for some reason. _Good. I'm glad he's unhappy._ Now that she had the added insult of being accompanied by the woman her husband had been flirting with, she was even less in charity with him.

She resisted the urge to slam the door.

Sands felt a surge of relief when he heard the door shut.

* * *

"Com'on, lets go for a walk." 

I resist the urge to shrug Roberts' hand off my shoulder. I'm really not in the mood to be touched, but I _am_ vaguely restless, so I agree to a walk. A walk and a smoke. And I intend to recollect Lizzie. She's been gone too long and I'm starting to get prickles between my shoulder blades. I know I'm paranoid, but that's never a good thing.

There's a mass exodus from the room. Roberts, Riley and I hang back until trying to get out the door won't resemble cattle crowding into a corral. I'm all for beef, but not for resembling it.

"No wonder half those agents didn't manage to get their tails out of hot water."

"You're sounding catty, Riley. It suits you."

"Shut up, Roberts. It wouldn't kill anyone here to take the stairs once in awhile."

By this, I assume that there's quite a crowd in front of the elevator. An ancient, creaking, disaster-in-waiting by all accounts. Even the management had bestirred itself to post a notice asking that no more than five people take the elevator at a time. Or so I've been told.

"Let's beat the crush," I say lazily. I'm not sure where the stairwell is, but I grab my companions' attention simply by stopping. It's a bit annoying; these two aren't subtle in their attempts to support my presence. I'm tempted to jerk out my gun just to prove myself, but that would cause more trouble than is worth my time.

By the time we get to the lobby, I've rethought that idea. The echoes in the stairwell seem to have taken up residence between my ears. I can only hope that it's not a permanent arrangement. The ringing sound is particularly annoying since it's blocking out the noise of a commotion across the lobby.

"Shit." Fingers dig into my arm. I grimace and pry them out.

"Damn, Riley. I'm not a pincushion –" The commotion gets louder, loud enough for me to determine that the angry parties are headed in my direction, and that at least one of those parties happens to be my wife. "Shit."

A body made entirely out of hard, protruding angles – as impossible as that is – slammed into me. I reach out reflexively as I stumble back. The faint perfume that reaches my nose tells me that I've got an armful of Lizzie, but it's not nearly as pleasant as it was earlier.

"Sands!" That pissed voice belongs to Vince DeLeon, one of the biggest wastes of flesh I've ever had the pleasure to meet. He also has the unusual talent of making every word that comes out of his mouth sound like a curse. Needless to say, he's made his stance on the necessity of my presence made very clear more than once.

"What the hell did you do, Lizzie?" I whisper as I straighten up from where we crashed into the wall.

"Nothing," she hisses at me as I wrap my left arm tightly around her waist.

I'm inclined to believe that. DeLeon is a jackass. For all I know, he's pissed merely because she had the nerve to venture outside the hotel's doors. Then she jerks that comforting thought away from me.

"All I did was use the phone."

_Shit!_

Without another word to the eager audience, I jerk Lizzie around and pull her to the elevator. Everyone's sense of self-preservation keeps them from climbing on the elevator with us. Liz is silent on the ride up to our floor. Also out of self-preservation. Or at least I hope she has at least that much sense.

The few people in the common room demonstrate amazing perceptiveness and disappear with and fleetness of foot.

Ignoring them, I tow Liz into our room. Now that we're lacking an audience, she's starting to struggle. My rising anger is more than enough to keep her from getting away. I've got hold of her wrist; she's not brave enough to really try to get away. At the moment I could easily break it, and she must be able to sense enough of my anger to keep from pushing me that far.

Flinging her into our room, I slam the door and lock it behind me. I can hear her panting; I can almost taste her matching anger. _She's upset about being manhandled? Too bad. The little –_

She slaps me hard across the face. Before I can stop myself, my arm shoots out and I clip her on what feels like the cheekbone. It's hard to tell with the heel of my hand, but since she doesn't yelp in pain, I assume I missed her nose.

Then it strikes me that I've just responded to my wife's assault with a move that could kill a man if I had my sight.

And that scares the hell out of me.

"Damnit, Lizzie! Keep your kung-fu to yourself! Don't go attacking your only ally here."

"If you're an ally, I'd rather be on my own!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"What the hell do you think it means?"

"I'm not the one making phone calls!"

"All I did was call the house! _Someone_ has to reassure the kids that _my corpse_ isn't resting at the bottom of a _lake_."

_The house? She called the **house**?_ While it'd be incredibly cathartic, hysterical laughter probably isn't appropriate at the moment. "Damn, Lizzie. I think the peroxide has sunk a little too deep."

"I only started bleaching my hair because _you_ liked it!"

That's not a point I'm willing to argue.

"Lizzie," I say very patiently. "If your phone line wasn't tapped the moment the Agency realized I had stopped over at your house, then they're not worth diddly-squat." She's silent. Apparently I've taken the wind out of her sails.

Damn. DeLeon isn't going to let me forget this any time soon.

* * *

**Author's Thanks: **my many thanks to…**Winged** **Seraph** (the "sweep me off my feet line" was appreciated by a lot of people. I'm glad it went over so well. I thought it was amusing, but that doesn't always mean a whole lot.); **Dawnie****-7** (Sands is great when he's being a complete ass. Thus, my liberal spreading of sarcasm through this fic. Flashbacks are great, but conflict drives a story.); **Lynx** (Cheap sarcasm – especially from Sands – can be effective if used wisely. I try to restrain myself from the cheap stuff. I'm glad you find my plots to be intricate and detailed, but usually they just kinda evolve without much help from me. Which is good because when I try to sit down and _write_ a plot, it seems awfully contrived. Although I suppose that could be one definition of "plot." ); **normal** **human** **being** (I just want to say that all the physical violence is dedicated to you and your need to see Liz acting irrationally. :P And there's more fight to come. I know it's cruel to end mid-fight, but if I didn't, this was going to go on for another five pages.); **quick29** (don't worry about reviewing the moment a chapter is posted. It'll be around for awhile before I get to posting another, and when reviews come a few weeks after I've posted, it helps me stay motivated.); **misc** (I updated soon, or at least as soon as I could. One of these days I won't have 3+ fics going at once and I'll be able to update more regularly.); **Cayenne** **Pepper** **Powder** (I updated this in February? Wow. That was awhile ago. I really need to finish a fic. I'm very glad you find that Sands is staying in character. That's what I was struggling so much with for the past few days. I couldn't find the right way to motivate him. But like I said earlier, I think I've managed.); **Spoofmaster** (lol. Short reviews are just as appreciated as longer ones. Don't worry about having nothing to say.); **Del64** (discovering new fics is one of life's pleasures. I'm just glad that you stumbled across mine.) 


	7. Chapter Six

**Author's Note: **whoa! This chapter just _flew_, man! One minute I had nothing and three days later I was done. This is the fastest I've written a chapter in a long time. Good thing too, because it's probably going to take me awhile to get that chapter of FS up and running. :P Please enjoy this and let me know what you think.

Author's thanks at the end.

* * *

Liz was too unreasonably angry to notice that Sands had effectively stopped arguing with her. She'd always been particularly sensitized to him; he could make her feel things more deeply than anyone else she'd ever met. At times that had been…wonderful. And then there were times like right now when he made her feel like a first-rate clod, a lobotomy patient, and a clueless nitwit all rolled into one. She could even pinpoint the statement that had lit her very short fuse: _"Damn, Lizzie. I think the peroxide has sunk a little too deep."_ Her reply had been inane, but heartfelt, and she wasn't nearly through.

"That's the sad title of this entire escapade, isn't it?"

Sands – who had been mulling over the pros and cons of shooting DeLeon in the head versus strangling the mother of his children with his bare hands – noticed the edge of hysteria in Liz's voice. _Sure, no one will lock **her** in the loony bin if she lets loose. _"What's that, Lizzie?" He'd completely tuned her out and wasn't quite sure what she was going on about.

Liz literally saw red, making her wonder if she'd popped a blood vessel in her eye or something as equally unpleasant. Had it not been for that dull wash of color over her vision, however, she probably would have launched herself at Sands in a veritable tornado of kicking, hitting, scratching, biting womanhood that would have been better suited to a Fury than an approaching the big 4-0 mother of two.

And as was often the case for people who lost one sense, another stepped in to take its place.

"We might as well put the past decade or so into a file marked 'Things Sheldon Wanted.' It would be such a shame if my intelligence-inhibiting hair color was lonely in such a neat little category." In addition to being bitter and too hearty by far, Liz's voice flowed on too fast for Sands to break in. Not that any defense he could have mounted would have stalled her at this point.

"Let's see…what else can we add? Well, if we jump back about _fifteen years_, we can add my not going back to school after Chris was born to our file. After all, you were the one that convinced me that a move for _your_ career was in the best interest of us all. And then there's your whole 'secret life.' You weren't going to let anything hold you back from what you wanted, were you? I can just hear you now. 'Kids who'd like me to be around occasionally? A wife who'd like to see my face now and then? Screw that! It's no big deal. They'll all be waiting around when I'm done playing Secret Agent Man, and if they don't like it, well that's too darn bad! I'm Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, and I get what I want by fair means or foul, damnit.' And now I'm here because _you wanted it._ So don't act as if this was some great, unwelcome tribulation to test your martyr's heart."

Restless because parts of her diatribe – especially the last half or so – had hit far too close to home, Sands slowly lit up. He could hear Liz panting angrily not too far away. Somehow he'd lost control of the situation; it was unlikely that he'd get it back at this late point without a fight. Not when Liz had the bit so firmly between her teeth.

So he decided to placate. It wasn't as if things said in the course of self-preservation were binding. Right?

Exhaling through his nose, he said in his most calming, charming voice, "You know that's not true, Lizzie."

At the moment the only thing Liz knew was that the comic shake of her head was wasted because her _husband_ couldn't _see_ it. ­_The nerve of the man!_ For some reason the fact that he was blind was trying to hit home at this particular moment – _Now! Of all times it had to be now!_ – but even that didn't make a big enough dent in her head of steam to stop her.

"What can I say, Sheldon? When you're right, you're right. Not everything in your life has gone the way you've wanted it to." Her scarily understanding tone disappeared the moment Sands started to look as if he was actually going to agree with her. "But apparently the possession of a loving family – wanted or not – didn't hold you back at all. _You_ left _us_, you conceited bastard! _You_ brought _me_ here! Those were _your_ choices, not mine!"

"I didn't want to leave," Sands said tightly, but it was a lost cause. Even he could see that. So to sweeten the sentiment he tagged on, "And you're not that loving."

"If you want to delude yourself into thinking that," Liz hissed back at him, "be my guest. But you damn well had a choice to live up to your vows or to follow this mad path of yours. Don't think that I'm not perfectly aware of what choice you made every time _that_ crossroads came up. And if you think – _honestly think –_ that your family could have been anything but loving, then you've been blind for a lot longer than you haven't been able to see."

_Great. All that time and perfectly good aggression spent and we're back to square one. If we ever get past this point it'll be a miracle._ Sands rolled his head on his neck, trying to relieve some of his ever-building tension. Not only had he been hurt – surprised even – that Liz had thrown his lack of sight in his face, but he was perfectly aware that more important discussions were taking place outside this room. _One last try at peace, then screw it._

"Don't be like that, Lizzie."

Silence

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees or so.

_Shit. Obviously not the right thing to say –_

"Don't be like _what_, Sheldon?" Liz's voice was nauseatingly sweet.

_Danger, danger Will Robinson…_ "That's not what I meant –"

"Explain it to me then. That is, if you think my peroxide saturated brain can comprehend English."

Since he'd already blown it, Sands decided to go for the gold. It was sloppy to leave a job half done. "Look, I don't have time for this right now."

"Why am I not surprised?" Liz asked bitterly. "Of course you don't have time. Fine. Go play spy with all your little friends. And go to hell while you're at it."

It was Sands' turn to be furious now. People were being maimed, framed, and killed... And _she_ called it a _game_? If she wanted to call an acute case of Blind Mans' Bluff – and he _was_ bluffing his ass off – a mere game, then –

"_You_ go to hell," he drawled back at her, resorting to the safety of sarcastic disdain. "I don't know why I'm putting my neck out for you if you're not going to take any of this seriously."

"Not taking this seriously?! I've been bullied, kidnapped, threatened, and assaulted due to no actions of my own –" Sands snorted, "– and you have the gall – no, make that the _unmitigated_ gall – to say I'm not taking this seriously? I'm terrified! What are you?"

There was really only one way he could answer that question.

"Blind."

Again there was an extended moment of silence, then slightly hysterical laughter bubbled up from Liz's position. Before Sands had any earthly clue as to what was going on, she'd thrown her arms around his neck. Whether she was laughing or sobbing now, he wasn't sure; mangled hilarity still rang in his ears while at the same time, his neck was growing a bit damp.

"Oh Sheldon, did I hurt you earlier? I don't know why I did that. I'm not usually a violent person."

Sands just patted his seemingly crazed wife awkwardly on the shoulder, more certain than ever that she'd finally gone around the bend. Though he'd always thought that he'd go first. "I'm…uh…I'm fine." Flummoxed but physically able.

"You just make me so mad."

"Yes…I seem to remember having a talent for that." _Poleaxed, there's a nice word. And it nicely describes how it feels when surprise whacks a man upside the head._

Before she could reply, a voice interrupted from the mysteriously open doorway. "I'm sorry to interrupt such a touching moment," the words dribbled in a lazy Texan drawl, "but there's some deep sh…er, trouble piling up out here, Shep. DeLeon is pressing to have you both left behind to greet our estranged colleagues. You need to deal with it before he can build up too much of an anti-Sands faction."

Roberts left the room then and Liz discretely wiped her eyes on Sands' collar. "It's about me using the phone, isn't it?" she asked as she straightened her shoulders and stepped away from him.

"You've instigated it, yes. You made a stupid mistake –" Sands bit off the rest of that sentence. Liz was on his side at the moment and _he'd_ be the idiot if he didn't try to keep things that way. "Like I said, you instigated it, but this has been coming for awhile. DeLeon is a rabble rouser, and we've an abundance of rabble at hand. My treatment of you has been tempered because I have a basic understanding of what your actions stemmed from. No one out there does. No one pities you – unless it's your being married to me – and most probably dislike you for that same pity-inspiring reason."

Liz felt a bit lost, as if she was out of synch with the world around her. Which she was. But there really wasn't anything that could be done to fix that right now. "Are you saying this to comfort, warn, or scare me?"

"I'm just letting you know that things are probably going to get ugly." He shifted uncomfortably on his feet while his hands competently and absentmindedly checked the fit of his gun in his holster. "Just stay out of the line of fire, Lizzie."

She'd watched with no small amount of uneasiness as his hands had practically caressed his weapons. "Are we talking about literal or figurative gunfire?"

"Both. Neither. Depends on how the cookie crumbles." Sands reached out with uncharacteristic sentimentality to lightly brush her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "I've done enough damage. I still intend to see you home safely." Out of a deep need to disperse with the sappy feeling hanging in the air, he smirked, "If you can keep from acting like a naïve idiot, of course."

* * *

_ Easier said than done,_ I thought moments later. It felt…wrong…to allow Sheldon to precede me into the common room. Now that I knew – or had allowed the knowledge to sink in – that my husband was well and truly blind, it was against my nature to simply let him still go first. It was nearly infuriating, mainly because I know he felt just as strongly about hiding behind me as I did about hiding behind him. Not that I knew how to deal with these people, this spoof of Robin Hood's merry men. _It makes perfect sense. Well, it would if the merry men had been out to kill Robin and they all hated each other… Maybe it has something to do with their training. So they're better at working alone or something – _

"There he is now. Our own Casanova. I guess there must be some truth to love being blind."

I bristled at the man's poisonous tone. It was one thing for me to point out Sheldon's vulnerability. It's something else entirely for another person to do it. With that in mind, I moved to step around Sheldon, but as usual, he somehow knew exactly what I was planning – annoying man. Then, as if to tell me that I couldn't fool him, he leaned against the wall with perfected insouciance, blocking my way.

"Real men can do it under any circumstances, Dee. But you wouldn't know that, would you?"

The man, DeLeon I suppose, growled while I rolled my eyes. What is it about men and their preoccupation with each other's sexual prowess? I mean, really. And that _was_ rather cliché –

"Oh, I suppose you're right, Dee." Sheldon either read my mind or – and this is more likely – correctly interpreted DeLeon's growl of irritation. "That was a bit of a cheap shot. Let's make a deal: I won't speculate about your…hmm…_abilities_…if you don't question mine."

From the beet red color of the man's face, I don't think things are going to be cleared up that easily. A quick glance at the other faces in the room – all of them exceedingly grim – confirmed my suspicions. Even the faces of Sheldon's two bosom buddies were less than optimistic; they looked like they were expecting Trouble, capital "T" and all. This was an unusually distrustful group and from the looks of it, none of them would question turning on their one of their own if given the slightest provocation.

"I think you've misunderstood the situation, Officer."

I didn't like the way DeLeon started to swagger towards us. "Umm…Sheldon…?" He shifted and suddenly seemed rather…dangerous.

"Why don't you clear it up for me then, Dee? You know how much I hate being _left in the dark._"

"Yes, I can see how that would be annoying," he said with false sympathy as he came even closer. I didn't understand why he couldn't feel the unmasked threats emanating from Sheldon's dark form. "And I'd be more than happy to _shed a light_ on things for you. After all, I'd hate for you to think that I harbored any doubts."

"Sheldon," I whisper more urgently.

He turned to me with an indulgent leer pasted on his otherwise unreadable face. _"Shut up_, Lizzie."

My eyes shot back to the view over his shoulder; DeLeon was wearing a triumphant smirk. As much as it rankled, I knew what I had to do. _Keep my mouth shut and my nose clean._

Sheldon must have taken my silence for the agreement it was because he turned back to the room at large. Unfortunately that didn't include DeLeon. _That_ man looked as if Sheldon's inability to locate him had caused Christmas to come early.

"What was it you were going to say before we were interrupted, Dee?"

"I was going to say –" Sheldon's head slowly turned until he'd honed in on DeLeon, making me realize how well he'd adapted to this…infirmity. It seemed to be an afternoon of revelations. "I was going to say that it's _clear_ to me that you're unfit for duty, Officer." I didn't think that anyone could sound more smug that Sheldon, but this man managed to give my husband a run for his money. "You're blind."

"And you're a jackass, but I don't hold that against you," Sheldon replied in an oh-so-reasonable tone, earning several snorts of laughter from the assembled audience. DeLeon wasn't amused though. If anything, he turned downright ugly.

Sheldon's words of warning rang in my ears. I stepped back a bit.

"You know what, Sands?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"You're not only blind, you're delusional. You're nothing but a liability, an accident waiting to happen… A joke." DeLeon stayed just out of reach as he taunted my husband. It not only infuriated me – although this time I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut – but it made me wonder how it made Sheldon feel.

"You think _I'm_ a joke? You obviously haven't heard the one about the Pope, the pimp, and the lawyer. You see, the pimp and the lawyer make a bet –"

"See? See! That's exactly what I mean." The nods coming from approximately half the group wasn't encouraging to see. "You don't take anything seriously."

"If I did, I'd have eaten my gun by now," Sheldon muttered under his breath, his words hidden by DeLeon's continuing tirade.

"Your incompetence will get us all killed. Unless we do something to make sure you're not a danger."

_That sounded like a threat._ I bite my lip in an effort not to interrupt. I really am trying to do what Sheldon would like me to.

"Incompetent." I could practically hear the indolent lift of an eyebrow that went with that statement. "A moment ago I was blind, now I'm incompetent. I can't tell if I'm rising or falling in your estimation, Dee."

"Let me assure you then; you've been falling since you showed up with the little woman in tow –"

"Lizzie's not _that_ little." Sheldon sounded surprised. "I mean, sure, she's not in need of a diet or anything –"

"Gee, I'm blushing," I mutter from behind him.

"Anytime."

DeLeon's face was turning that dangerous shade of red again. "You might think she's amusing, Sands, but she's not. She's proof. How the hell can any of us rely on you to do your part when you can't even control your own wife?"

"I wasn't aware Liz _needed_ to be controlled. Besides, collars and leashes are a little too S&M for her tastes –" I don't have time to blush before DeLeon interrupts.

"Not need to be controlled? The little bitch gave us aw–"

DeLeon didn't have time to finish that sentence before Sands reached out and grabbed his shirtfront. Before anyone could move close enough to stop him, he'd slammed his captive against the wall and had his gun out. And as he flipped the safety off, it was clear that he was ready to use it.

"You never did have a clue as to what was suitable for public discussion and what was not, did you, Dee?" I step forward when Sheldon raised his gun to press it against DeLeon's forehead; a hand on my shoulder stops me. Apparently Sheldon's friends think he can handle this on his own.

"Now, you've had the chance to make yourself clear. Let me make _myself_ clear. You're welcome to share your feelings, but you've now crossed the line. You know what that line was? Lack of intelligent thought. If you think you can get to Price without me, then _you're_ the one who's blind and delusional. For reasons that I'm sure are beyond your comprehension, _I'm_ the _only_ person who's going to be able to get Price so ticked off that he'll never notice the commando squad on his front lawn until it's too late. Without me, no one here stands a frog's chance on the freeway of clearing their name. I want you to also keep in mind that I don't _need_ eyes to keep someone like you in place." A small white circle appeared on DeLeon's forehead as Sheldon pressed a bit harder with his weapon. _"¿Comprendés, me amigo?"_

DeLeon nodded slowly. I had the absurd need to laugh at the way his eyes crossed as he tried to keep watch on…the barrel…of the gun.

Not amused anymore.

"Hold up there, Mrs. Shep." Roberts' unexpected drawl in my ear stills my just barely unrealized impulse to go stop Sheldon. "Just let it slide. He knows when to stop. Usually."

"Why am I not comforted?" I mutter back. But his words bring back my resolution not to make things more difficult for Sheldon.

As for Sheldon, he continued his one-sided discussion with DeLeon without pause; I wonder if he heard us, and if he did, if he approved. Or cared. "Oh good. I wasn't sure if I'd used small enough words or not. But if we've got that point settled, then I suppose we can move on." Sheldon got so close to DeLeon and said his next words so quietly that I barely heard them. "Naïve and an idiot she might be, Dee my friend, but Liz is _my_ concern, and my concern alone. Isn't that right, Lizzie?"

A glance at Roberts confirms that I'm actually supposed to voice an answer. "Yes."

"And you're going to be on your best behavior from here on out, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"There. You see, Dee? Problem solved." He slowly pulled the gun away. "And should you forget anything – _anything_ – we've spoken of, our next talk won't be _nearly_ so pleasant." With one last vicious twist of DeLeon's collar, Sheldon let the man go and turned back to the still assembled agents. "Now, is there a reason to stand around for any longer discussing whether or not I'm 'fit for duty,' or are we going to scatter like mice before the cats swoop in and have a field day?"

* * *

They scattered. Small groups of agents headed for bus and train depots, called taxis, headed for airports, etc. Three volunteers stayed behind to watch for whoever it was who came to check things out. They knew that the CIA would definitely send a team out, but it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that Price would send men out as well. Sands thought – to the agreement of Roberts and Riley – that it not only would be a smart move on Price's part, but very like him. A man who lived off the information he could collect would be stupid to not keep an eye – and an ear – on anyone his information had burned.

About the only thing that the former operatives could agree on was that Price was anything but stupid. Thus the covert exodus; they planned to regroup in Boca Raton in a week's time.

Sands, Liz, Riley, Roberts, and Biaselli were just one of the groups that took to the open road. They headed northeast. There was no particular destination in mind; frankly, any place would be better than the derelict VW van they'd got at an equally ramshackle used car lot.

"I've always wanted to go to New Hampshire in the spring," Riley drawled as she took over the 3 am to dawn driving shift.

"Mid-January does _not_ constitute spring," Biaselli mumbled back.

"It does if you were raised in Alaska."

Biaselli harrumphed before jerking a stolen hotel blanket over her head.

Liz would have liked to do the same, but she was loathe to surrender her barrier between herself and the van's moth-eaten avocado green shag carpeting. It was actually supposed to be her turn to get a bench to sleep on – not that they had more than the one since the second had springs poking out of it – since her driving shift had just ended. But she hadn't wanted to wake Sands. He'd been pale and quiet since they'd quietly left Hagerstown. By now she recognized the signs of a ferocious headache. Laying on the floor with all its vibrations and vaguely heart-stopping shimmies would hardly be restful for him. He probably wouldn't like her consideration, but while he talked a good game about not wanting to be coddled, Liz was still felt that it was the least she could do after setting this particular series of events into motion.

"Wondering what happened?"

Liz looked up from her study of Sands to see that Roberts had turned around in the passenger seat to watch her. He was on duty to help the driver stay awake and on deck to take over the next shift. Apparently he'd decided that talking to her would be an entertaining way to keep everyone awake. And she was tired enough that she was willing to be friendly for awhile.

"No. He told me."

"Everything?"

The sideways glance that he exchanged with Riley only supported her notion that Sands hadn't shared _everything_. And he hadn't. He hadn't shared any of his feelings about the events that preceded his injuries. He'd never said if he'd been scared, or angry, or felt like giving up… "No. Not everything. But enough." She could imagine how he'd felt well enough without actually having to hear it. Not that she wouldn't listen if he ever tried to share his feelings. But there were places that even wives didn't dare intrude.

"You care about him, don't you?"

Liz glanced up; Riley was looking at her in the rearview mirror. She shrugged as she thought about her answer. "We were happy once. Or at least I was. Maybe he never was. I think I would know if he hadn't been but I don't necessarily trust myself where he's concerned anymore. Being a single mother has been hard. I'll admit to wanting a husband to help share the load. I want the man I married – that I thought I was marrying – back. And I know that's Sheldon, even if I no longer _know_ Sheldon." She stopped and tried to put her disjointed thoughts into some kind of order. "Yes, I care about him. Even if he doesn't want me to and even though I don't know what caring for him involves anymore. So I guess we'll see what happens."

* * *

I needed to get drunk. Inebriated. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor tequilas past tipsy. Cockeyed, boozed, crocked, pickled, loaded, soused, drunk as a skunk, plastered, three sheets to the wind, sloshed, and/or go on a bender.

See – haha, of course I can't – the thing about having no eyes is no one can tell if you're awake or not. And it was my misfortune to be waking up just in time to tune in to the last part of Lizzie's little spiel.

_ "We were happy once. Or at least I was. Maybe he never was…I don't necessarily trust myself where he's concerned anymore…I want the man I married – that I thought I was marrying – back. And I know that's Sheldon, even if I no longer **know** Sheldon…Yes, I care…" _

Damning words if I ever heard them. Not that I don't understand where she's coming from. I'm sure her point of view is that everything about our previous life together was a lie. Women and their emotions. If she could just keep her emotions out of things she'd know just how illogical it would be for me to pretend to be a family man while going through all the BS training I had to do. I had some truly craptastic days that I would have _much_ rather preferred to have been alone for. But I always came home, didn't I?

"Wouldn't know, Shep."

"Huh?" The overwhelming noise of a local bar on a Friday night is abruptly and nastily overwhelming.

"Oh…you're just monologging again. Gotcha."

_Hmm…it's possible that I've been here too long…_ I make a swipe for whatever it is I'm drinking and toss it back. The glass is empty. "Robbo. How long we been here?"

The long wait to get my answer makes me wonder if my drinking companion has passed out. A throaty "'Bout two hours," relieves that worry though.

"Where're the women?"

"Probably commiserating about how we're all pigs."

"_Where_?"

"Oh. Where. Right."

It penetrated my alcohol soaked mind that this conversation wasn't making much sense. "What're we drinking?"

"Tequila shots. Your idea. I wanted whiskey."

"Right…where're the women?"

"Putting on a show." This was said in a very matter-of-fact manner that I just _knew_ was hiding admiration. _Hell. "Admiration." Try lust._ "Tell Lizzie to knock it off."

"Oh. _Those_ women. You gotta be more specific, Shep. _Our_ women are at the motel."

"Where's the motel?" I remember a lot of driving…and that's about it. My head hurt. While painkillers might have been a smarter choice – since a hangover was just going to compound the problem in the morning – getting ripped was always a lot more fun.

"'Cross the street. Lucky us."

_Right._ I stood. It felt _very weird_ to have the room spin around me without being able to see it. I know it doesn't make sense because vertigo is really an inner ear problem, but I had hoped this whole invisible tilt-o-whirl deal would disappear for good.

"Whoa…hold on there partner." Too late; I've nearly tripped over the chair behind me. "Ooo…I'm gonna tell Mrs. Shep that you can't hold your liquor."

"Don't be a rat fink. Besides. She knows." I don't know where the falsetto comes from, but I find myself doing an eerily accurate impression of Lizzie. "Don't even think about it, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. The last time you were drunk like this, we had Chris."

"Why don't you talk about your kids?"

_Nope. Nuh-uh. I'm not **nearly** drunk enough to have this conversation._ "Where's the street?"

"I ask a question and you want to become street pizza?"

"What?" _Where did he get that idea? An excellent question. _"No, you drunk bastard. Where did you get that idea?"

"Why do you want the street then?"

"To cross it." That seemed rather obvious. What else would I do with a street? Isn't like I could stay on one long enough to drive down it and I'm fresh out of chickens.

"Right…"

"The women, Robbo. You said the women were across the street. In the motel. Therefore, if I wanted to sleep off the enormously ridiculous amount of alcohol in my bloodstream, I need to cross the street. To get to the motel. Where the women are." _That came out rather well._

"Oh. Why didn't you say so before?"

"Shut up." Windmilling arms or no, I manage to find Robbo and wrap one arm around his shoulders. "This isn't about being blind," I warn him lest he get the wrong impression. Can't have people thinking I need help. "This is about me failing a sobriety test."

"Right. Can't walk straight to save my life either."

A century or two later, I'm slammed into a door that's all too solid for my comfort. "Damn, my head hurts."

"Still? Maybe we ought to hunt down a few beers."

"Don't sound so concerned, man. Where's my key?"

"Search me."

"Hell no." It's much easier to simply pound my fist against the door. "Lizzie! Lizzie, open the door! It's your outrageously handsome husband!" I ignore Robbo's sniggers. "Lizzie!"

"Sheldon!" I hear my name hissed a split second before my fist thuds into the door one last time.

"Lizzie? What're you doing over there?"

"This is my _room_ over here. _You're_ probably causing the occupants of that room to call the manager. I swear, if you get us thrown out of the first unmoving lodgings we've stopped at in over thirty-six hours –"

"Robbo…I thought you said _this_ was my room."

I felt my companion shrug since we each still had an arm thrown over each other's shoulder. "My mistake."

"Don't let it happen again."

"Yes, sir." Robbo shrugged me off into the open doorway of my own room.

"Drunk bastard," I muttered as I closed the door behind me.

"Look who's talking." Liz's voice is tart with disapproval.

"Oops...sorry. Forgot you don't like cursing." Which was odd, because it seems to me that she's been doing her fair share lately.

"What are you doing!"

I freeze. "What?"

"You're…you're stripping in front of me."

"Should I do it behind you?"

"Sheldon…"

"I just want to go to bed, Lizzie." Why is she yelling? It makes my head hurt. Can't she see I'm a very sick man?

"Fine. Do what you want then."

Permission given, I strip down to my boxers, go to brush the stale alcohol out of my mouth, then pad back into the room. I can hear Lizzie moving around in bed. It only makes sense to join her since I've no idea if we have another bed or not and I'm not about to make an ass of myself by looking for one.

"Sheldon!"

"What!" For the love of Pete, why can't she lower her voice?

"What are you doing?"

"Going to bed. Didn't I say that already?"

"This is _my_ bed."

What's her point? "Isn't that where I usually sleep?"

"Not since you left."

"Hmm…sounds like I've been remiss in my duties." Sliding under the covers I reach out for Lizzie. She's soft. Right now I need soft.

"Don't even think about it, Sands. The last time we…did this…while you were drunk, I got pregnant with Chris."

"That's what I told Robbo," I mutter sleepily as she pulls herself out of my grasp.

"You what?!"

"_Please_ stop yelling, Lizzie." I reach for her again. "Just sleep. I promise. I hurt too much for anything else."

She's stiff under my fingers for a long time before I hear her huff. "Fine. But I swear to god, if you –"

"Yadda, yadda, yadda, double castration, etc. I get the picture, Lizzie."

"You'd better."

* * *

**Author's Thanks:** you guys are all so great. :D **vanillafluffy** (Liz just isn't used to thinking that she's remotely interesting, and the fact that she's basically on the run from the law really doesn't have much reality for her. Perhaps she's in denial. I dunno. As for the darling children, I hope to have them pop up in the next chapter.); **Dawnie****-7** (Sands likes to exaggerate. He's convinced that hyperbole is an art form. I'm glad you liked the emotionally intimate moments for Sands and Liz there. They were a lot of fun to write.); **LadySparrowJack** (I like playing with Sands. He's a character that is easy to get unconventional reactions out of, and the unconventional is always fun to read about at the very least.); **quick29** (Liz doesn't quite understand what's really going on, and she still misses her kids. Perhaps he next attempt to call them will have a happier ending. I'm really pleased with how Sands has turned out in this story. Like you said, he's a bit colder, a bit more calculating, and that really is the nature of Sands.); **Mayorst** (The reason I like flashbacks are because they're great for establishing previous character. And once you see how things "used to be," then you can understand how much that circumstances have created change in the characters. And that's about as much sense as I can make at the moment.); **Lynx** (Sands can contemplate killing pretty much anyone. However, he can usually control himself. When he wants to. I'd comment more but I'm suddenly very ditzy, and you make so many wonderful comments that I can't reply to them all coherently. :P); **misc** (yes, I'm writing two other fanfics along with this one, a Secret Window fic and a From Hell fic.) 


	8. Chapter Seven

**Author's Note: **I think I've decided which of my three stories is the most fun to write. :P It's a struggle to not just sit down and finish this one and ignore the others. Especially when I figure there's only another…three?.. chapters to this one before it's done. Wow.

Well, I guess I'll type up the thanks and start thinking about the next chapter of FS. Enjoy, y'all.

* * *

"…while your concerns in Malaysia, El Salvador, and Tunisia are flourishing, there are some concerns to be raised over the slow progression of matters in the near and middle East. I would suggest that if the agents positioned in those countries don't start producing the desired results, that we implement –"

The phone rang and the flunky knew better than to keep talking. _No one_ called Price's inner sanctum without making a good impression a virtual cadre of attack secretaries, each with more clearance than the last. If a call made it this far then it was for one man's ears only.

Bill Price noted with approval his aide's discretion as the other man wandered to the other side of the room and let himself out of the office. The adage "good help is hard to come by" was certainly true. He'd wasted good time and money silencing the inept assistants that had come his way. He'd be pleased to not have to dispose of this one in the middle of this little…crisis.

Assured of his isolation, Price picked up his phone. "Who is it, Janet?"

"Recon delta, Mr. Price."

Price pulled out the pocket watch he always carried as a reminder to himself of –

"Sir? Should I patch them through?"

"Yes, Janet. By all means, put Mr. Grieves through."

Price reached over and flicked on his recorder – it was a habit of his to record _all_ of his phone calls. It was impossible to tell what information might be useful in the future. – just as two clicks indicated that his secretary had both hung up her end and switched the line. Such efficiency was to be commended.

Tucking his watch back into his pocket, Price leaned back in his leather office chair and gazed out at the Coppertoned tourists flocking the beach and boardwalk below his office building. He felt mild disdain for them; like sheep they milled around, looking for the greenest pastures and the choicest mates, their lives empty of purpose and their minds empty of thoughts.

"Report."

"If they were ever here, they've flown the coop, sir. We've searched the premises of each of the area's hotels, but found proof of habitation in only one. Signs point to a large group inhabiting the upper floors and conference room, but that could be the conclusion we were meant to arrive at. Even the few fingerprints we've found match either hotel staff or are too smudged for identification."

"Mmm."

Despite their being in his employ, Price didn't trust his recovery and reconnaissance team to know what they were looking at. They were dealing with people whose lives depended on leaving behind no trace of themselves. Still…

It'd be like _his_ former students to lay false trails. It was practical, yet leaned towards the ridiculous at times; two states that would suit them. Glen would appreciate the challenge. Sheldon would lay several false trails, purposely leaving just one or two clues behind at each, hoping that someone with enough wit would piece them together. Maria would hurry both men along, her practicality winning out over her partners' artistic sides.

Turning his mind back to the task at hand, Price asked, "You have no conclusive proof at all?" That was disappointing. _Most_ disappointing. And this…lack of useful intelligence should not produce such a smug note in his agent's voice. Failure was never rewarded. A fact all his employees knew very well.

"None but the two men who seem awfully interested in our business. Of course, it could just be coincidence that we've run into them three times apiece. This _is_ a small town."

The tone of Grieves' voice let Price know what his instincts were. And Price agreed. _They'd know that the hounds would be set on their trail._ Damn, but this was the reason he no longer took protégés. They had the nasty habit of attempting to predict his movements. "Catch them. I want to know what they know."

"Yes, sir."

"Then dispose of them."

"But sir, won't that –"

"Don't presume to think for yourself. The moment our two spies are late in reporting in, their fate will be common knowledge. That's no reason to be sloppy though, now is it, Mr. Grieves?"

"No, sir."

Excellent. The man sounded mildly nervous. "Very good, Mr. Grieves. Now, I should like it very much if you would send whatever belongings were left behind to my office." Just in case Sheldon _had_ decided to get fancy.

"The currier will have it to you by this evening."

"It'd best be here before the end of business hours. I do like to keep to my schedule."

Grieves deridingly wondered if Mrs. Price – if there was a Mrs. Price – could set her clock by how and when she was screwed. Not that he'd ever share that with his employer. "Yes, sir."

"And make sure everything is cataloged according to room."

"The photographs are being developed as we speak, sir."

Perhaps Grieves team wasn't as inept as he thought. "Schedule your men for some R&R when this business if concluded, Grieves. I think they've earned it."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"That will be all, Mr. Grieves."

Price hung up his phone and steepled his fingers. The grin that slowly spread across his face was not one to inspire confidence in anyone. "Sloppy work, Sheldon. Very sloppy." Making sure his children were squirreled away under Federal protection had been a surprising move on his part. But his insistence on keeping his wife with him?

The surprise on his student's face – the best of all his students, past and present – would be utterly delicious when the man realized it was his wife's presence that had tolled the death knell for his little resistance group.

The moment she stepped foot in Florida, his men would be on them.

* * *

"Brat," Chris hissed as he searched through the dark room for his little sister. These Feds were worse curfew Nazis than his mother was. When they decided it was lights out, that was that. No exceptions. Not even for a little girl who was still afraid of the dark.

"Brat," he hissed again to the same effect. Was she actually in bed for once, soundly asleep instead of hiding in the closet –

"Ow! Sonofabitch!"

"Mom doesn't like it when you cuss, Chris."

Balancing briefly on one leg, Chris rubbed his injured foot and planned his sister's murder, but he gave up and cautiously set his foot down while he bit back the obvious reply – that their mother wasn't here, damnit. It'd be the wrong thing to say; experience had taught him that. So instead, he demanded, "What's all over the floor, Amanda Lynn?"

"Legos and jacks."

Stifling another curse, Chris _carefully_ limped over to his sister's bed and fumbled with the blankets until he found her boney shoulders. It was uncharacteristic of him to care about what "the brat" was up to, but with their mom missing…

"Don't you know that I'm the only one who comes stumbling in here after lights out?" he asked tiredly as he took the seat she made for him.

"I don't like it here, Chris." He tolerated it when she pressed against his side, just as he tolerated all her other annoying habits…

Hell, that was a lie. He paid attention to her fears because it kept his mind off his own.

"I know you don't, brat."

"Why doesn't Mom come home?"

"Because she can't." By far the blackest sin to grace his memory of his father. "You've heard them. Dad won't let her."

"How do they know that? They say they haven't heard anything."

Good question, but the answer was simple. "She'd be here right now if she could be. He's keeping her hostage. That's what he told the people who tried to arrest him."

"I don't believe it." Mandy's tone was mulish. "Mom loves him."

"What?" Mandy couldn't be _that_ naïve, could she? "Why do you say that?"

"Mom told me once. I asked her why she was sad, and she said it was because it was their anniversary and the man she loved didn't even care enough to send her a postcard."

"When was this?" It occurred to Chris that he didn't know what day his parents' anniversary was. He should. He should have known so he could have taken his mom's mind off it.

"Don't 'member." Mandy worked her fingers into her brother's. "But she still loves him, so he won't hurt her."

It was horrible reasoning on Mandy's part, Chris thought. All their mother's love hadn't kept their dad from abandoning them all. Hadn't kept him from breaking Mom's heart.

This time he didn't need experience to know that this was something he shouldn't point out to his sister.

"Go to sleep, brat."

"You'll stay until morning?"

_I always do._ "Sleep."

Mandy lay down. Chris felt her rearranging the blankets. Then she settled down and murmured her prayers – a nightly ritual usually performed in the presence of their mom – then whispered, "Goodnight, Chris."

An hour later when he finally couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, Chris lay down and whispered back, "Goodnight, Mandy."

* * *

"Stop it," I mutter without fully waking up. All I know is that my bedmate is thrashing around much too energetically to allow me to sleep. Almost the moment I think that, the body next to mine thankfully calms, although I could do without the elbow digging into my spine…

I shift; with the uncomfortable pressure relieved, I gradually fall back asleep.

An unknown amount of time later the thrashing is back, accompanied by unintelligible muttering. I wait about thirty seconds for it to stop – all the patience I have so early in the morning – then roll over and turn on the bedside lamp. The sudden light makes me blink and squint, but has no effect on my companion.

"Oh, Sheldon…" I'm afraid of what might happen if I reach out and touch him mid-nightmare, but his face is a sickly grey and his hair is dark with cold sweat. _Something has to be done. I can't just let him…_

"Just calm down," I murmur, hoping that a soothing voice will keep him from attacking should he wake suddenly. I've had his hands around my neck quite often enough in the past few days.

Shivering as the cheap, unheated motel air hits my skin, I ease out from under the blankets and observe the situation. _It's a wonder that he's left me any blankets at all. _Somehow he's managed to cocoon himself with all his flailing; I assume that his physical condition has worked its way into his dreams. Being pinned down as he is must bring back some unpleasant memories.

I carefully work to untangle the blankets from around his legs, lower body, and torso, murmuring soothing words while I do. It's tense work – I have to keep one eye on him so I can leap out of the way should he attack – but a sense of satisfaction sweeps over me as I pull the last confining fold free.

The moment he's released from his cotton prison, the restless movements of his arms and legs cease. It's an improvement, but I'd still feel better if I could banish his nightmare entirely. The mumbled words and phrases flowing freely from his lips are proof that while more comfortable, he still isn't happy.

"Sheldon?" Still not touching him directly, I move to the end of the bed and gently untie his shoelaces. He was so drunk when he came to bed that he forgot to take his shoes off. _How he managed to strip down to his boxers without taking off his shoes…_ I'd always wanted a man who'd never cease to amaze me, but I'm not sure that this is what I meant.

"You're pitiful," I softly inform him as his shoes thump to the floor.

Sheldon comes awake at the sound, sitting bolt upright and fending off some horror with his arms. I remain absolutely silent, my hand resting gently on his ankle until he kicks it away.

"Don't." His voice is tight with personal misery.

"I'm just protecting myself," I bluff. "You still had your shoes on. I didn't want to get kicked."

He frowns. "Shoes?" It sounds as if he can't contemplate something so commonplace as footwear at the moment.

"Yes, shoes." I let my voice become more matter-of-fact; I get the feeling that he'll find sympathy condescending right now. Still, I pull the blankets up around us both, making sure that he's nicely covered. He might ignore it, but I can see the goosebumps on his arms.

"Don't baby me." Sheldon's frown is deeper now. I don't know if he's truly mad at me or if he's suffering from a hangover. Or just the headache he had earlier.

"I'm not. I'm stealing the blankets back." I lay down again, my back to him, then ask, "Would you come back to bed, already? You're letting the cold air in."

He seems to debate the wisdom of this for awhile, but I don't nag or further encourage him to join me.

I'm mildly disappointed when he climbs out of bed. It's unreasonable of me, I know that. Just moments ago I was wary of being throttled in return for my good deed. It doesn't follow that I should want him to stay. Or that he would want to; he must be embarrassed to be caught in a nightmare by me of all people.

_He wouldn't be upset if his friends had been here. _The heat of annoyance helps to beat back the chill of the room. _He wouldn't be so prickly If they'd overheard. They'd let him be about it. _I turn off the lamp and flop back down._ I'm doing that too, so I'm not sure what the big deal is. It's not like I'm taking this as an opportunity to drag his deepest secrets and fears out him. He just doesn't trust me, not even to behave like a human being. As if I really **want** to hash everything out in the middle of the night…_

Just as I'm getting a good head of resentment worked up, I hear Sheldon come padding back to bed accompanied by the sound of a flushing toilet. Blushing, I remember how much he had to drink earlier.

As Sheldon slides back under the blankets – carefully leaving plenty of room between us, I notice – I smile softly. I'm glad he can't see how pleased I am that he came back. If he knew how much it meant to me to have him not blame me for intruding on his nightmares…

I'm just glad he can't.

* * *

Sands didn't go back to sleep. He'd heard Liz doze off, had listened as her breathing grew deeper and evened out, and had been relieved that she hadn't demanded explanations from him, explanations he wasn't prepared to give her or anyone else.

He never should have gotten drunk in the first place, though at the time it had seemed like a prime example of having to choose between the lady and the tiger. Not drinking himself senseless would have made being near Liz a torture. Yet being drunk loosened his control to the point where he couldn't wake himself from hellish memories of being betrayed, held down, tortured…

An involuntary shiver rocked him and he turned towards Liz. Despite everything, she represented a kind of safety. Not the lifesaving kind, but the life-affirming kind. She was his security blanket. He didn't mind that being true as long as no one else figured it out.

He'd been more hurt than he'd let on when the news finally got through to him that she was asking for a divorce. That's when he'd _really_ started hitting on that bitch Ajedrez. After all, what had been left for him to go home to?

God, he was so glad he'd killed her. That was the only thing that made the nightmares worthwhile; waking up and feeling grim satisfaction wash over him as he remembered her fate.

Somehow though, waking up to find Liz pretending not to fuss over him was nearly as good. He wondered – should he live through the next week or so – if it'd actually be possible to work things through with her. At least he'd be living with the devil he knew…

The woman his thoughts were centered around moved, her body making the mattress shift.

When she had lain still for awhile, Sands realized that she hadn't woken up. There was no reason he should feel grateful for that, but he did and he let his curiosity take reign for a moment. The air was cold as he stretched a hand out in Liz's direction but a draft of heat brushed across his fingertips.

_She's facing me._ That made him hesitate for a moment, listen to the pattern of her breathing, and come to the conclusion that she was still deeply asleep. _Good._

Using even more care than before, Sands felt the very tips of his fingers brush against warm skin; exploration revealed that it was Liz's cheek. Her skin was soft, though not as velvety as it'd been five years ago. How old was she now? Thirty-seven? He counted back from his own age and came to the conclusion that she was indeed thirty-seven. Not a hag, but no spring chicken anymore either.

The thought started a soft gust of laughter out of him. She was right. He _was_ a pig.

Trying to remember the face under his hand, trying to piece together her image in his mind's eye, Sands sent his fingers questing further. His thumb rubbed against the side of her nose; no nose ring. It'd never been huge, just a miniscule silver stud, but he supposed it'd clashed with her professional image. It was too bad; in her heart of hearts, his wife was a flower child, an unfettered hedonist. A look at her CD collection where Jimmy Buffett, Simon and Garfunkel, The Mamas and the Papas, and John Lennon rubbed elbows with Fleetwood Mac and Peter, Paul, and Mary would prove that. He'd always been fascinated by that visible representation of her inner self so boldly stamped on her outer self. It had been a glaring paradox in a woman who so disapproved of paradoxes.

He'd never mentioned that to her. To do so would have been foolish when he'd known that she would have been insulted by the fact that he'd _dare_ to have preconceived notions about her. She really could have been a wild woman for all he'd known. And she was. Deep down inside where only flashes of it showed and only in extreme situations. The rest of the time she had two feet about as solidly on the ground as anyone could.

Unbeknownst to Sands, the strengthening light of dawn – along with the nearly phantom brush of his skin against hers – had roused Liz. She had been surprised to find him touching her but too tired to tell him to knock it off or to move away from his hand. Now she watched him from under her eyelids. She was getting better at reading his expressions; the one gracing his face right now was…not quite tender, but something akin to it.

He kept touching and she kept watching, each of them making their own discoveries. When his fingers drifted towards her eyes, she let them fall shut. When they drifted towards her lips, she fought to maintain her even breathing.

When he rubbed his thumb back and forth across her bottom lip, she couldn't help but let her lips part.

Sands froze, though he didn't yank his hand away as she'd thought he might. His face was turned away from hers so only his profile was in view, but that was enough for her to see that he raised an eyebrow before once again sweeping his thumb across her lip. Her breath left her in a gust.

"You like that, do you?" he murmured more to himself than to her. Then he raised his voice: "Tell me that there was someone else. That there _is_ someone else."

Liz shook her head, this time brushing his thumb with her lips.

He groaned; it wasn't a sound of pleasure although there was an element of that emotion in it. "Tell me you didn't wait around for me, Lizzie." His hand slipped across her face, sliding into her hair.

"I can't…"

"Then lie. It'll be for your own good." He was frowning when he turned his face towards her, waiting to hear the words that would block the foolish path she was about to let him take.

"I won't…"

"Damnit, sweetness." His fingers tightened in her hair, raising her face as he leaned over her. "You'd better not blacken my eye this time."

"Never." The word was breathless, though her breath wasn't truly stolen until Sands brushed his lips against hers. His nose bumped hers; they both adjusted their fit though neither pressed for more. It was too…awkward…between them to take this too far. Somehow they both understood that without uttering a word.

Liz's hands reached up to cup his jaw just as Sands thought he'd have to ask her to touch him. Sands rose up, propping himself on his free arm just when Liz thought she'd have to pull him to where she wanted him. Despite the fact that they only touched above the shoulders and showed no signs of straying, the kiss grew in intensity while remaining light.

Who knows how long it could have continued if Roberts hadn't come along and started pounding on the door, interrupting the cocoon of silence the couple had protectively built up around themselves. They both froze at this proof of not-so-intelligent life existing outside of their own private world. And while Sands' head started pounding – with …frustration? Irritation? Hangover? – it was Liz who pulled away, rolling out of bed and to her feet. She retreated to the bathroom without a word, leaving her husband to jerk the blankets from the bed and answer the door with more than a little hostility.

"You know, somewhere in Texas, a town is missing it's idiot, and it's not the President."

Roberts raised his eyebrows, surveying Sands' blanket-clad figure and the empty room in a single glance. "The Missus too cold? Or did she leave you hanging?"

Enough was enough. Sands shoved Roberts out the door and followed, making sure he'd swiped the room key before slamming the door behind him. "That topic of discussion is no longer your concern," he all but snarled.

Roberts eyed his friend and decided the potential for jocular hilarity wasn't worth the fistfight he'd have on his hands – or the gun between his eyeballs – he'd get if he persisted. Sands had always been tightlipped when it'd come to his family, but had never protested the asides of others on the matter. So either something had gone very right, very wrong, or Sands was very hung over to take such a vehement stand on the matter at this late date.

"Uncle," he declared, shoving a cigarette and lighter into Sands' white-knuckled hands. It was a little chilly out here (and this time he was observing the weather). "I'm guessing that whatever else was happening, you weren't listening to the news."

"What time is it, Robbo?" Sands lit up gratefully, his tone once again civil. That break in his emotions had been a rare thing, and quite frankly, he never wanted it to happen again.

"Seven-ten, give or take."

"Why are you here then? You know I don't recognize any hours that fall between bedtime and nine." Sands turned to go back in his room. Annoyingly enough, Roberts followed. Figuring that Liz was safely ensconced in the shower, Sands didn't say anything but let the other officer tail him inside. It was cold enough to literally give any man blue balls. Just thinking about that had Sands reaching for his pants. "I'm still waiting for an answer."

"It's Masden."

Sands froze, then continued pulling his jeans up. "We're in Merrimack then."

"Not far off. We're actually in a little town named Derry."

Sands buttoned his fly and reached for a shirt. His movements were sharp, tainted by his shackled all-consuming drive for revenge (though even that was a mild way of putting it). All he said though was, "You're going to get us in trouble with your Stephen King obsession, Robbo."

"We're not in Maine." Roberts doubted that Sands even heard him. "Listen, I don't mean to put a hitch in your getalong, but Masden was found dead –"

He was cut off by the stream of curses Sands let out at hearing that the man responsible for selling him out to Price had already been silenced.

* * *

"Get dressed." I can't help snapping at Liz when she appears from the shower. The rest of the group is ready and she's wandering around in a towel. From the silence that meets my demand though, I don't think Liz is going to obey with any amount of grace. And further demands are just as likely going to be met. With this in mind, I get a grip on myself and say, "Liz, we're decamping as soon as you get dressed. So please try to hurry."

She mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "That's better," but I hear the rustle of clothing as she gets herself ready, which is all I really care about. She can demand I speak to her in pig Latin for the next –

"What…are…you…doing?"

Over the sound of a hair dryer Liz dryly replies, "I'm drying my hair, Sheldon."

_No. No, no, no, no._ I walk across the room and yank the appliance out of her hand, slamming it back into it's wall-holder.

"What are you doing!" She reaches around me to take it back, but I keep my hand firmly in place. "Sheldon!"

"I don't think you understand the urgency that's needed right now," I say in a low voice, one I know she can't help but hearing anyway. "Besides, I'm the only one you need to look pretty for, and I can't see."

"Pig," she says disgustedly. "What if I don't _care_ if you can see or not? Has it occurred to you that I find some satisfaction in grooming myself so I can mingle with civilized company?"

"You're on the run with some of America's Most Wanted," I toss back. "What makes you think there's any civilized company to be had?" She's mulishly silent. I take that as unwilling acceptance, so I push her out of the bathroom. "Put your shoes on. We're going."

"_You_ go." There's a note of hysteria in Liz's voice that tells me we won't be getting out of here anytime soon. "If you're so disgusted with me after a simple kiss – a kiss that was _your_ idea I might point out –"

"I gave you every chance to back out of that. It's not my fault you didn't, and that's not the reason…" The reason I'm snapping at her like the very frustrated man I am? Ha.

"Then why are you treating me like last night's castoffs?"

_Aw, what the hell. It's only a matter of national security._ "Roberts interrupted out little interlude to inform me that Masden, the man responsible for turning me and ever other officer in Latin America over to Price, was found dead in his house last night. He was shot in the back of the head, execution style." I ignore Liz's gasp of shock and continue. "Now, granted, the end result is what we came to New Hampshire to achieve, and yes, I'm more than a bit peeved that Price's men got the drop on us and finished the bastard off before I could have the pleasure. But what I really don't like is wasting time." My smile is tight. "We still need to make sure it's really Masden who got his brains scattered and not some poor dupe who was offed to make good Masden's timely exit from the international arena. Such things have been known to happen. Then, supposing we avoid Price's men – who could very well be hanging around just in case any of our group shows up – we need to haul bacon and get out of here before the narks bust up our little party. Got it, sugarbutt?"

"You don't mean that." Her voice is…pained.

"I certainly do. I'm not really one for retreat, but needs must."

"No, not that. The part about wanting to kill him yourself. About being upset that you didn't get to."

Poor Lizzie. I reach out and cup her cheek, acting for all the world as if she's right. "I meant every word." She pulls away and I let my hand drop as I try not to be hurt. Despite my best attempts, I can feel my face harden. "The son of a bitch was responsible for the deaths of at least twelve officers, three of whom used to be my friends. He deserved whatever he got. Or whatever is coming to him, if he has indeed slipped the noose. Now lets go."

* * *

Biaselli, unrecognizable in disguise, was the one to slip into the morgue and attempt to identify Masden from a recent photograph. When she came out, it was obvious from the look on her face that the man wearing Masden's toe tag wasn't Masden himself. And while that news made everyone else in the van relax, it only made Liz tense up. She didn't like the conviction that had been in her husband's voice when he'd declared that he would have liked to kill – literally _kill_ – his former boss. The cold-blooded persona she'd spoken to that morning made her uncomfortable and painfully aware that Sands had new sides to him. Ones she didn't care to ever learn how to recognize.

Sands, recognizing that she needed time to mull things over, left her alone and made sure that everyone else did as well. If Liz decided to condemn them all to hell, he at least wanted her to be certain of his decision.

The group crossed the border into Massachusetts and drove on to Springfield. They'd stay there for a day or two before hopping a plane for Florida. Sands briefly wondered if he dared let Liz have her heart's desire and go back to D.C., but selfishly decided to keep her with him until this matter was settled.

In Springfield they parted ways, Liz and Sands making for one mediocre hotel and Roberts, Riley, and Biaselli heading for another. Riley had been the one to suggest it, and while the rest had agreed probably just to get out of the line of fire, Sands had agreed because it'd be nice to have Liz to himself one last time. Temper tantrums and all.

Liz hadn't voiced an opinion.

Sands decided the fact that she hadn't strenuously disagreed was a good sign.

When she didn't say a word to him all evening, he started to rethink that opinion.

Bedtime rolled around, bringing awkwardness with it. Just to spare himself another fight, Sands waited until Liz was settled in one bed before claiming the other. He was half asleep before Liz gave in and climbed in beside him.

"I can understand why you want to kill Masden yourself," she murmured by way of explanation. "But for your sake and mine, I hope that someone else gets to him before you do."

* * *

**Author's Thanks: **my thanks to **Dawnie****-7** (I liked the dynamic between Liz being absolutely furious and suddenly contrite. I'll probably never let her do that again, but it was nice that she got to see the absurdity of it all.); **LadySparrowJack** (Drunk Sands was great fun to write. Just the dialogue is a total blast to write. I mean, it usually is with Sands, but then it was really fun.); **Sugarbutt** (I get the feeling that their relationship is evolving much differently than it did when they first met. I don't know if more slowly is the word I want, but it's something along those lines. Perhaps there's just more caution and a sense of déjà vu involved.); **Lynx** (Days is always the one with the quickest update once I've gotten to FS and PS. Like I said above, out of all my stories, written and being written, this one is the most fun to write. I think part of it is that I've nailed Sands a bit more than I did in my "More Than" stories. I think I threw in the "double castration" bit just for all the FaLiLV fans.); **websurffer** (That whole drunken spiel just seemed to type itself, I swear.); **quick29** (the last chapter was different than the last. It was the one where everything changed. Relationships, storyline, all that good stuff. It's certainly my favorite chapter so far.); **doctress** (I'm glad that you're enjoying my flights of OUATIM fancy. I know that I like writing them. Thanks for reviewing.); **misc** (It's always great to hear from you. I hope this update didn't lag too long.); **Lola** (Sands is tricky to write, but I think I'm getting the hang of it with practice.); **midnightmuse** (Here's the more you were looking for…hey, that rhymed… :P); **skitza** (the lag between updates can be a bit appalling at times, but that's what I deserve for writing three stories at once. I'm glad you're enjoying this, and I hope the wait didn't turn you off the fic.) 


	9. Chapter Eight

**Author's Note: **wow! Not having to worry about PS for the moment has really sped up the writing process for me. And not only that, but this chapter got to be about 1,000 words longer than my chapters usually are. I'm amazed.

You'll notice as you read that this is something of a transitional chapter, but I promise a whole lot more Sandsy goodness in the next. ;)

Author's thanks at the end.

* * *

I'm woken up once again by phantom caresses circling around my nose. I'd slept with relative peace, meaning Sheldon had as well. Still, he never used to be such an early riser unless he was up to something. Back in the day that "something" would have meant I was going to be treated to breakfast in bed. For some reason I didn't think that was the case this morning.

"What with your sudden fascination with my shnoz?" The fingers freeze. I'm too tired to open my eyes and fix a stare on him until he confesses all – not that it would do me any good anyway – so I just say, "This is the second morning I've woken up to find you fondling it." I rub the tip of my nose on his palm to emphasize my point. It actually startles a laugh out of him, so I do it again.

"Stop that. I'm not made of Kleenex."

"Could have fooled me. Why the need to feel up my nose?"

"I don't have a nose fetish if that's what you're implying."

"It's not, though I might start wondering if you keep evading the original question."

"You're such a nag, Lizzie. I'd threaten to beat you if it'd do me any good."

"So you've said more times than I can count." I shove his hand away; if he's not going to answer me, I'm not going to put up with his familiarity.

"Impatient too."

Now he's getting on my nerves. If all he wants to do in the mornings is catalogue my faults –

"You got rid of your nose ring, alright? I liked it. I miss it. It was sexy. It made your face complex, and I live for complexities."

"It was a nose ring," I counter, certain that he's making mountains out of nose…er, _mole_hills.

"It went against the grain of the persona you projected. It was a shining bead of contradiction. A silver drop of dichotomy. A –"

"I get the picture." It's a picture that makes me grumpy and touchy, but I'm getting it loud and clear. "So you're saying it livened up an otherwise dull face."

The argument must have gotten to him too because he threw the blankets off and practically stalked out of bed and to my side. Before I can predict what his intent is, he bends me over his arm and kisses me. And before either of us know it, a kiss meant to silence me (always his favorite method) grows nearly out of control (always the predictable outcome), testing the limits of our joint control.

He pulls back at the same moment I start to push him away. But he doesn't put me back on my feet. He holds me, as if the texture of me will tell him what sight no longer can. The information must have become clear to him because he gently brings me back upright, presses a second, softer kiss to my lips, then murmurs, "Good morning to you too, Lizzie."

"I wish you wouldn't do that," I mutter as he lets his arms fall back to his sides.

"We're here for three days, Lizzie." His tone is so serious that I find myself listening and taking his words as gospel truth. "And then I don't know what will happen. Do you understand how…how…" He runs a hand through his hair in agitation then forces himself to say, "How scared I am of that? Of not knowing? Of wondering what the safest thing to do with you is? If I should keep you with me, keep you here, or send you home? Wondering just how many enemies – unseen and unforeseen by me, Roberts, and Riley – are out there? Wondering where they are, and what their orders are; if you're to be silenced if you fall into their hands, or used against me, or any of a dozen other unpleasant outcomes?" He laughs darkly. "And those are just my worries about _you_. I on the other hand, am relatively certain that I'm not going to come out of this alive –"

"Sheldon, stop," I say, shocked by this outpouring of trust and confidence. Shocked by my own reaction.

"Stop what? Stop being practical?" He lays his hands on my shoulders with minimal fumbling. "My chances aren't great, sweetness. They never were, not even with your help. My chances of taking some of the bastards down with me are better. My chances of offering a distraction where no one else can?" He shrugged. "I tend to draw attention to myself since I became a one man freak show."

"Don't _say_ that." God, what's happened to him? He's still my confident Sheldon, but there's so much…so much self-hatred in him now. As if he's so disgusted by himself that he can't imagine anyone else feeling differently.

"Why not? It's the truth, isn't it? Or have you just not gotten a good enough look yet?"

"Don't!" It's too late. He's ripped off his sunglasses – his unnaturally ubiquitous sunglasses – right before my eyes, forcing me to give all my attention to his wounds. Forcing me to face the damage, and the scarring, and the shadowy depths. Demanding that my disgust and horror ratchet up to meet his own… Except Sheldon doesn't always get what he wants from me.

I cover his wounds with a hand trembling with heartbreak for this man in front of me. Not with pity – _never_ with pity – but with sorrow for the warped reflection his inner eye must present him with. I veil them from my sight, denying the truths – his truths – that he would use as a warning against the monster he thinks he was turned into.

My hand stills as I gather my resolve. Its shivers relocate to him; I can feel him trembling under _my_ touch now.

"This," I whisper passionately. "_This_ does not make you a monster. This does not make you a freak show." My free hand rises to splay over his chest. "What's in here makes you a monster, a freak. And I don't see it until you force it to the surface to display like some twisted badge of honor. You're still my Sheldon –"

"No I'm not." He would have wrenched away, but I don't let him.

"You're still my Sheldon," I repeat, my voice louder. "I won't deny that you're hurt. That you're scarred. That you've grown with your experiences."

"I've been _mutated_ by them," he emphasizes, still trying to force me to see the worst of it.

"You're changed," I counter. "You're not broken. And I refuse to treat you as if you are." I remove my hand from his eyes and daringly kiss his forehead. "Stop treating yourself as a freak and others will stop seeing you as one." Then I leave him alone to go take my shower. He's always mulled over things better when he doesn't have a chance to argue.

* * *

Sands stood there for a full minute after Liz left him alone, feeling her touch searing his skin like holy water splashed on a vampire, and listening to the sounds of her moving around in the shower. Then he shook it off, mentally told himself "screw it," and barged into the bathroom.

"What do _you_ know?" he demanded over the shower and the sounds of Liz's stringent protests.

"Sands! I'm in the shower!"

Realizing he was completely pissed off, Sands jerked aside the flimsy shower curtain and fumbled for the knobs. He must have gotten something right because Liz screeched and the water was soon shut off.

"Are you _trying_ to give me hypothermia? Is that what that last hotel and this…this…"

"Are you trying to imply that I have some deep-seated belief that you're a cold woman and I'm trying to communicate that in a series of Freudian slips? Because that would sure as _hell_ fit in with the rest of that new age psychobabble you're trying to cram down my throat!" Despite his pledge to himself to control his temper, Sands found himself shouting.

Liz didn't immediately reply, and when she did, it was merely to say, "If I can't shower, can I at least have a towel?"

"Why?" The question was harsh and combative, as if he was daring her to pick up the gauntlet he'd thrown down at her feet.

"Because standing here arguing with you while I'm butt naked makes me feel very helpless and defenseless."

"Maybe that's how I want you to feel," he intoned as he crowded her, all but stepping into the bathtub with her in an attempt to cow her.

She took a step back – he did know how to put on a good show – but kept her cool. "Maybe. But I don't think it is. I think you just want to feel safe."

This was too much; just as quickly as he'd come in, Sands stormed out, slamming to door behind him.

Liz stood for a moment, waiting to see if he'd come back, then turned on the water again. She still had copious amounts of shampoo in her hair – drying shampoo – that she'd like to get out sometime today.

That wish was granted and she was halfway through washing herself when Sands came back in. "What makes you think I don't already feel safe?" he demanded as she turned off the water just to save time and the shock she'd get if he turned off the cold water this time instead of the hot.

"Oh, I'm sure you're arrogant enough –"

"_Arrogant!_"

"– to feel physically safe," Liz continued over his disagreement with her choice of vocabulary. "But do you trust me not to cringe in horror every time I catch you with your guard down? Or, in other words, with your sunglasses off?"

"Sugarbutt, _I_ cringe in horror every time –"

"There you go again. Trying to convince me that I should have nightmares about the sight of your injuries."

"'The sight of my _injuries_?' That's a euphemism if ever I've heard one," he laughed bitterly.

"That's what they are in my mind. Injuries – bad ones. Worse than losing a limb to shrapnel. But still a war wound. I admit they're not pretty, and yes, I may cringe a little. But I'm also thinking about what you must have been feeling. The pain you must have went through. The fear."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

He stormed out, then back in as Liz was rinsing her hair a final time.

"So you think that I don't feel safe with you. Is that what you're saying?"

It was the last straw. Liz wanted to be patient with him, but this was worse than trying to care for personal hygiene while dealing with a two-year-old with separation anxiety. "Sheldon! What is _wrong_ with you?" Slapping at the faucet fixtures to turn off the water, Liz groped for a towel to cover herself with before stepping out of the shower. "Can't a girl shower in peace?"

"Payback's a bitch, isn't it?" he asked superciliously, growing calmer now that she was showing signs of agitation herself.

"No, it's a bastard."

"That was witty." Now totally at ease again, Sands leaned against the wall. "So what was it you were saying about me not being comfortable around you?"

"Every time I turn around – and I almost mean that literally – you're trying to make me uncomfortable, or disgusted, or upset with you. Your favorite form of entertainment is attempting to drive me away. That's not exactly healthy behavior, Sheldon."

Sands held his hands spread apart in a "what-can-I-do" kind of gesture. "What can I tell you, Lizzie? I'm a sick man."

"See?" Liz walked forward and poked Sands sharply in the chest. "That's what I'm talking about. You try so hard to paint yourself with the blackest brush possible that it makes me wonder what it is that you're actually trying to hide."

His face closed, all humor shunted away as she hit a little too close to the mark. "Besides the monstrosities behind the glasses you mean?"

"If I had to guess merely from your little peep show this morning, I'd have to say no. Whatever it is that you don't want me to know is deeper…more important than that."

"Let me clue you in, Lizzie. There is _nothing_ more important to me than losing my sight."

There was a hint of anger coloring his voice again; it underscored the sense of danger he was emanating. Liz ignored both as she stepped closer to him. "I don't believe you."

"Your mistake," he said, attempting to brush past her. Liz didn't move though, for once keeping _him_ trapped since he seemed disinclined to simply shove her out of his way.

"You want to know why I don't believe you?"

"Not particularly."

She ignored him. "I think the loss of your sight is important to you. And I think your need for revenge is important to you. But I think I'm important to you as well, otherwise you wouldn't have any second thoughts about what the best thing to do with me is." When he didn't say anything, she pressed her advantage. "I'm right, aren't I, Sheldon? I'm important to you, and you don't know how to handle it."

* * *

Damn her for her insight. I hate it. And I hate her for having it.

I mean, what does she want from me? Even before I left I wasn't one to open up and spill my guts just because of a pair of pretty eyes, or nice breasts, or whatever it is that makes other guys go ga-ga. Well, I mean, sure, those things catch my notice, but I have more sense than to sit down and give a girl enough material to write my biography. It's a good way to get yourself blackmailed. And it's _doubly_ dangerous when it's your wife.

"Leave me alone, Lizzie." Yes, that seems like an excellent idea. If she leaves me alone then neither of us will be forced to face unpleasant truths. Then again…if she leaves me alone…

The darkness when combined with loneliness is crushing. I remember nights in the hospital when I woke up, heart pounding, lungs stalling, ears ringing…desperate for any signs of life other than my own sorry ass.

Yet I can't take the words back.

She's not a comfortable companion. She challenges me in almost every way possible. Has from day one. From the moment she started nagging me about what exactly I needed to do to make our project grade-A material. Nearly twenty years later and she's raised her expectations; now she wants _me_ to be grade-A material.

That's like wanting a three-legged horse to win the Kentucky Derby. And that doesn't happen because three-legged horses get shot in the head.

I'm not going to give her – or anyone else for that matter – the opportunity to get close enough to do that. I don't think my soul could take it.

Still, when she moves away, all I can do is grab her arm to stop her and think about all the things I'd like to do with her one last time.

Eat a meal with her in front of the TV while she debates with Alex Trebek over the answers to Jeopardy! questions.

Listen as she plays her clarinet while it rains outside.

Throw popcorn at her while she tries to read.

And then there's things I regret missing but don't really want to experience. We're both getting too old to want to go through the whole childbirth/baby thing for instance.

The trying to get there part though…I wouldn't mind doing that again if Lizzie would be amenable.

"Sheldon, was there something you wanted? Or were you just testing how long it took for my hand to go numb? Because it is."

_Ooops_. Of course, if I want to drive her away, pretending to be scatterbrained might help. "What are you talking about, Lizzie?"

She snatches her arm away. "Very funny, but you've been trying that one for years and I still haven't fallen for it."

_So much for that idea._ You know, being such a tease in what I'm coming to think of as my former life is really coming back to haunt me. I suppose I could make her believe I'm totally around the bend if I really wanted to – it _is_ what I've been doing to survive for the past five years – but I can't really justify the expenditure of energy it would take. I need to be resting up so I can take care of Masden and Price, and however many goons they send our way…not playing mind games with Lizzie.

Besides, I'd like to have a little honesty in what may possibly be my last days on earth. If I'm a total, good-for-nothing scoundrel, she won't miss me. And if she doesn't miss me, who will?

Why is always comforting to know that someone will miss you if you die? That there will be at least one person grieving? And not grieving because they didn't get the chance to kill you themselves. But _truly_ grieving. Feeling the loss. It's an unpleasant wish to have for anyone if I really take the time to think about it. It's sadistic. That kind of grief hurts. And yet when it comes our time to drop everything and rot, it's what we all wish.

_Which reminds me…when was the last time I wrote the "letter home?"_ I think about it for a moment, then remember that it was just before the coup, but it wasn't a very nice one at all. I believe I actually started it out _Well, you've just saved money on a lawyer…_ I'll need to take care of that without alerting Lizzie to it. She wouldn't let me write one now simply because it'd be too morbid for me to write a last thoughts letter while she was in the room with me.

"Go shopping with me, Lizzie." The words are out before I can reconsider them. Unfortunately, they're also drowned out by the sound of her hairdryer. Annoyed, I move into the small area every hotel has, the one with the big mirror where the hairdryer and coffee maker are side by side. "Come shopping with me," I repeat, consciously using this nicer phrasing. It makes it sound like she's got a choice.

"What?" The hairdryer turns off. "What are you talking about? Why do you want to shopping?"

"Do you really want to stay shut up in this hotel for the next three days?" I shoot back. "Shopping's as good a reason as any to get out. We can get breakfast while we're at it. I'm sure there's an IHOP around here somewhere."

"An IHOP," she repeats stupidly.

"Yeah. A house of pancakes. Whatever. I thought you liked IHOP."

"Denny's," she tells me softly. "I like _Denny's_. _You're_ the one that likes IHOP."

_Hmm…she has a point._ "We'll do Denny's for dinner." She's quiet. I decide on the spot that I don't like it. I don't know what she's thinking when she's quiet. "Well, what do you think? Do you want to go out or not?"

I'm about ready to burst with frustration when she says, "Alright," in a hesitant voice.

_What? Does she think I'm going to take her out to breakfast and then off her?_ I'd reassure her that I'm not, but I don't think she'd find it as comforting as I'd like. I don't think she likes that those kind of ideas run through my head.

"Good. Finish getting ready and we'll go." It's either that or I seduce her now. It'll be easier later. Not to mention being stuck in this room with her makes me want to rush things, and that's never makes it good. There has to be time for the set-up. The fall is sweeter that way. I don't question my sudden desire to get my wife back into my bed in every – and especially the dirtier – sense of the word. That I want it is enough.

Funny how the years don't change anything. That was my attitude in college too.

I take a seat nearby while the hair dryer starts it's annoying whining again. I don't remember it being so annoying before. I mean, before I left. With a bit of thinking, I remember what's missing.

"Why don't you sing when you're doing your hair anymore, Lizzie?"

"I do, just not around you," comes the snide reply.

That's unacceptable, of course. Now that I've decided that we're going to pretend that the past five years didn't happen, I need her to go along with it.

"Why not?

"Because."

"'Because' is an excuse, not a reason."

"Why do you even care?" She's exasperated now. No more of that shyness, that hesitation. I grin. _That's better._

"Because I liked it." It's an honest answer. I can't count the number of mornings I woke to her voice, still husky with sleep, making a ballad or dirge out of just about anything. "It let me know the world hadn't ended yet." The hint of wistfulness that creeps into my own voice is allowed to stay only because it serves my purposes. "What was that song about the expatriated Americans? You used to like that one. You said it was…" What was it she used to say?

The hairdryer turned off. "That it was the disillusioned American dream. Bittersweet and fancy free."

Yes, that was it. I want to buy that CD, and others. Her music. "Will you sing it for me?"

She doesn't answer. She just returns to her task and the sound of it drills into my head, until at last I hear her soft voice, "First you learn the native customs. Soon a word of Spanish or two…"

It's my life, disillusioned and bittersweet.

"You know that you cannot trust them 'cause they know they can't trust you. Expatriated Americans feelin' so all alone, telling themselves the same lies that they told themselves back home."

She hums as if she can't remember the words, but I do. nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn  
_ Down to the banana republics, things aren't as warm as they seem._ _None of the natives are buying any second-hand American dreams._

And when she finds the chorus, I wonder at how empty my life has become.

"Late at night you will find them in the cheap hotels and bars, hustling the señoritas while they dance beneath the stars. Spending those renegade pesos on a bottle of rum and a lime."

And the last…it's what I'm begging for myself.

"Singing, 'give me some words I can dance to, or a melody that rhymes…'"

* * *

Sands took great joy in dragging Lizzie around Springfield. Most of that joy came from the pure fact that he _could_. That he still had enough sway over her to convince her to do things. That he didn't have to threaten or blackmail her into them. Threats and blackmail had their place, of course, and were often very good ways to handle spouses in his mind, but it was nice to be able to deal with her in other ways as well.

She was stiff at first, mistrustful, tearing into him for perceived insults with distracted zeal. He knew she was trying to figure out his game, his angle, what his private joke was before she could become the punch line. When she figured out that the punch line was that there _wasn't_ any joke, she relaxed. It was either that or rip his head off, which would have been sinking to his level which wasn't something she was willing to do.

Since they were both on their best behavior, the afternoon actually turned out to be a great deal of fun (even though Sands dragged Liz through five different music stores in search of the CDs he wanted). It was a concept Liz spent a good deal of time thinking about in the quiet times; how she could be having fun while technically having no choice but to pretend she didn't exist. That's what all this running was to her. And yet she could laugh, and smile, and joke…

The day was a full one. Sands was filled with too much nervous anticipation to sit still for long. He always got like that before a big show; his own version of stage fright he supposed. And Liz didn't exactly complain as pulled her through stores, and down streets, and dared her to try to hit hungry squirrels with peanuts. When he proved to be better at it than she was – always coming within inches of hitting the furry little things when he wasn't hitting them on the head – she exclaimed enough at his talent to stoke his masculine ego though she still urged him to knock it off. Squirrels were people too, apparently.

For Liz, part of the day's charm came from the fact that Sands was so attentive. When her teeth started to chatter with the cold, he dragged her inside a coffee shop. He didn't close down the discussion when she reminded him of a little coffee place they'd enjoyed on campus. He made good on his promise and took her to Denny's for dinner, after hours of allowing her to hold his hand – something she'd always liked far better than he – and listening to what she had to say.

They didn't speak of important matters by unspoken agreement. Their time together felt too good to spoil by arguing the issues so close to their hearts.

This tacit truce lasted until they arrived back at their hotel. As the door shut, closing them in the relative safety of their room, Liz regretfully let go of his hand and he moved away. She at least felt a brief moment of awkwardness, but when neither of them spoke, the companionable silence they'd found and fostered fell back down around them.

While Sands took his turn in the shower (though his had considerably fewer interruptions), Liz settled down with a magazine while the best of Simon and Garfunkel played softly on the cheap CD player they'd scraped together enough money to buy.

Sands' return was heralded by soft footsteps that were nearly drowned out by the turning of a page, and a pair of long-fingered hands settling lightly on her shoulders. She felt him bend down over her, his mouth close enough to her ear to stir her loose hair as he murmured in time to the music, "Remember me to one who lives there…"

"…she once was a true love of mine." Liz was glad he couldn't see the melancholy smile that hijacked her lips. "Why do you keep choosing such bittersweet songs?" On the surface, Scarborough Fair was simply a song about lost love. Just underneath the lyrics was a deeper message about warfare and senseless killing.

He ignored her. She hadn't truly expected him to answer. "This is a convenient hairstyle you've got."

"The haircut wasn't chosen with you in mind," she murmured.

"That's only because you didn't know I'd be coming back," he assured her as he pulled aside the collar of her shirt so his kisses could move lower.

Things were quiet for awhile as Sands did his best to soften Liz's manner towards him even farther and Liz fought against herself. She didn't know if this was what she wanted, especially in light of his attitude. Her body was obvious in its desires, but it also wanted a good deal of sweets –

_His mouth is sweet…_

– and having sweets all the time wasn't good for her –

_It's been five years. You wouldn't even sleep with him the night he left. You were too mad._

"Come to bed, Lizzie."

_But he's expecting to die. What if – _

"No, don't think." Of the two of them, she had that problem more than he did. She overanalyzed. He thought, made a decision, and acted. And he was so very anxious to act now. Literally apprehensive to the point where his hands were shaking and he felt more anxiety than arousal. But it would get better. If he just made love to her once, it'd get better.

When she let him pull her to her feet, he couldn't help but beam. She was going to let him…she was going to let him…

She didn't though. In the end, Lizzie couldn't let him go past heavy kisses and a bit of wandering hands. Not that she didn't want to – her body was most definitely put out with her – but in her heart she knew this wasn't right. One day of pleasant company and conversation didn't just didn't merit immediately striving for total marital bliss.

When he pulled away and all the tension drained from his body, Liz knew he understood her hesitation.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I just want this time with you to be good," he replied. "I don't want you to regret it."

Even that hint of him having limited time with her was enough to make her want to change the topic. "Do you think we should go to sleep now?"

Sands breathed out a laugh that wasn't truly humorous and kissed her forehead. "Do whatever you want, Lizzie." He certainly wasn't going to sleep anytime soon. True, he'd started to feel more relaxed the moment he realized she wasn't going to let him take things all the way, but he was still a man. And the part of him needed some time to get over being rejected by his woman. "Unless…unless you'd like to try to call Chris and Mandy?"

As if he needed an answer to that.

* * *

"For the love of – Steadman! Answer the damn phone already!"

"You answer it. I'm watching the game."

"So am I. _And_ I've got to go attempt to feed the brats in a few minutes. Your turn to answer the phone."

The unfortunate Agent Steadman turned away from the TV screen with a sigh, and went into the other room to answer the phone. "Tony's Kayak Shop and Repair," he said heavily as he strained to hear what was happening in the game.

"Oh, wrong number then," Sands said. "I was trying to get a hold of Christopher and Amanda Sands."

"What? Who is this?" Steadman demanded, turning on the recording equipment and the phone tracing equipment while trying to flag his partner down.

"Oh, so they are there. It's nice to know the Company is still trying to cut costs. And don't bother trying to trace the call. It's a cell phone, and probably a stolen one at that."

Steadman looked over at his partner who confirmed that bit of news with a disgusted nod. "What is it that you want then, Mr…?

"_Agent_, my good rookie. Or is this something else? Punishment duty? A severe case of brown-nosing?"

"I'm hanging up now."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Agent Hardass. You see, I'm the man you're supposedly protecting my children from."

"Sands? This is Agent Sands?" Steadman silently groaned. He wasn't high enough up to be talking to this man. He wasn't even in the same _class_ as this man and he knew it.

"See, that didn't take too long. Now, if you'll just trot out my children so my lovely wife can speak to them, I'd be much obliged. No need to hurry, I'll hold."

"Agent Sands, I can't just –"

"I'll hold," Sands repeated, this time letting a hint of his determination shine through. He'd been promising this to Lizzie for…had it only been a little over a week? But he _had _promised her she could check in with the kids, and it _was_ a step towards setting his affairs in order…

Taking his cues from his partner, Steadman said, "I'll need to speak to Mrs. Sands first."

"Why? To make sure she's still alive? And how would you know it's really my wife and not just some woman I've pulled in off the street?" Sands shook his head at the load they were trying to feed him. "Just do as I ask. Or I'll prove that my wife most definitely _isn't_ alright." If he could have, Sands would have winked as Liz sighed heavily in his ear. As it was, he had to content himself with a Cheshire grin.

"Uhh…yes, sir." Not knowing what else to do, Steadman put Sands on hold and shrugged when his partner shot him an unhappy look. "What else are we supposed to do? All the bosses have gone home for the day."

That lack of supervision or advice – even though the other agent was soon on the horn with their superior – led to Sands getting what he wanted relatively fast.

"Here you are, Agent Sands. Here's your son."

"Thank you so much. You're truly an asset to the Company," Sands said with mock seriousness. "Now, make yourself useful, and leave the room. And turn off that ridiculous recording equipment before you do."

"I…I can't do that, sir. Turn off the equipment, I mean."

Sands sighed in exasperation. "Very well. Make tracks then."

"Yes, sir." Steadman handed the phone over to Chris, then left the room.

"Chris?" When there was no answer, Sands assumed he had his taciturn son on the line. "Chris, do me a favor and flip off the recorder, unless you want your mother's tearful hellos shared with about fifty other people." There was a soft click and Sands nodded his head.

"Oh, then she's still alive then."

Sands desperately wished he could roll his eyes. "Of course she is. What would I do with a dead body –" The phone was jerked from his hand before he could continue or Chris could answer.

"Chris?" Liz demanded, sitting up in bed. "Chris, are you there?"

"You don't have to yell, Mom," Chris said almost as Sands said the exact same thing. Her son at least was trying to comfort though, not chide. "I can hear you just fine."

Liz made an effort to calm herself. "And you're alright? You and Mandy? You're both being taken care of?"

"We'd rather be at Grandma's," Chris muttered, "but we're doing okay. They leave us alone for the most part when they're not forcing us to attend classes with a tutor."

"You're not going to school?"

"I'm not even sure what state we're in, let alone if we're still close enough to go to school."

"Why? What do you mean?"

"They're afraid our 'father' is going to come after us next," Chris said bitterly before clamming up. He was fifteen. That was much too old to be crying. Besides, Mandy was here and he had to be strong for her. He certainly didn't want to deal with the caterwauls that would come out of her if she got upset. "Why hasn't he let you go yet? He hasn't hurt you, has he?"

Liz heard the misery in his voice and it brought tears to her eyes. Here she'd been, having a good time, and her children had been worrying over her safety. "I'm fine, baby. I just miss you and Mandy."

"Then why don't you come home!"

So much anger, and she wasn't there to deal with it directly. "I can't come home yet, Chris. I have to stay here. As much for my own safety as for yours." Silence met this statement and Liz felt her heart crack; Chris was too angry to understand. "May I speak to Mandy, Chris?"

"Whatever."

"I love you. I miss you," Liz said quickly, before he could hand the phone off. "And I'm proud of you."

"Miss you too," Chris whispered, and then the phone was given to Mandy.

"Mommy?"

"Hey, sweetie. How are you?"

"Lonely. I don't like it here. I don't know anyone but Chris, and they hardly ever let us go outside, and they only have stupid toys. And they don't cook like you do either. When can you come home?"

Ahh…the life of a ten-year-old. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I'll try to be home soon."

"Will you? Because I miss you, and I want Daddy to come home too so I can prove to Chris that he isn't a monster. 'Cept Chris uses a different word."

_Of course he does._ "We'll see, sweetie. Is Chris taking care of you?"

"Uh-huh. Every night he comes in to tuck me in, and sometimes he sleeps with me to keep me from being 'fraid, because they won't let me have a nightlight."

"That's good. And are you listening to your brother?"

"When he's not being a butthead."

_That's something, I suppose. _"Well, you just need to listen to him for a bit longer, and then I'll be home, alright?"

"Alright, Mommy. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetie." Liz hung up the phone with great reluctance, but with a modicum of relief as well. At least her children were safe.

At least she hoped she could be sure of that.

* * *

**Author's thanks: **my many thanks go out to my few faithful reviewers…**Dawnie****-7** (I got the idea for Liz to tell Sands to stop moving around from my sister. When she talks in her sleep I just have to tell her that she is, and she tells me, "No I'm not" and then she doesn't talk for the rest of the night. As for how Liz will take it if Sands kills anyone…haven't decided yet. On either score. :P); **quick29** (Well, I'm compromising when it comes to finishing my fics. I'm finishing this one and FS first.); **Lynx** (You will never get me to admit that I'm a glutton for punishment. Never. ;) Liz is most definitely Sands' security blanket.); **Mayorst** (heh – I don't know what to call you anymore. :P I'm dedicating this chapter to you since you helped me get out of a corner I'd written myself into. Sands getting pissed…I still think it's a brilliant idea since he's not really the kind of guy to get classically pissed. Only his wife can bring that out of him.); **Spoofmaster** (Don't worry about late reviews. I've said it once and I'll say it again – they keep me going.); **Cayenne Pepper Powder** (I always love hearing from you, if for no other reason than the amusement I get from reading your name. :P); **doctress** (I don't give up on my stories, I just have a hard time getting around to them sometimes. And other times they don't want to be written. I would love to abandon real life, but how would I afford the internet then:P There's no such thing as a "too long" review. Just thought I'd let you know. ;D) 


	10. Chapter Nine

**Author's Note: **wow, updated this just two weeks ago. I'm a writing machine! Actually, I want to be done with these. Hopefully that's no affecting the quality of the story. I struggled a bit with the last half, but I think it's still good. I know you'll all let me know. ;)

Author's thanks at the end.

* * *

I don't know if I'd say that everything between us was perfect after Sands found and called our children for me – because I know he wouldn't have bothered if I hadn't wanted to talk to them so much – but they did get easier.

Part of it was that we both were more relaxed. I felt immeasurably better knowing that although our children weren't _happy,_ at least they were safe and they weren't being mistreated. Having spent time with my husband's coworkers, I hadn't been certain that they were really being taken care of in my absence. At least not in a way that I would approve of as a parent.

Sheldon on the other hand…I'm not entirely sure why he seemed more at ease. I don't think it was because _I_ was relaxed. Until the morning after that phone call, he'd positively _enjoyed_ keeping me on edge. It'd been a pastime for him, a hobby. Not that I'm complaining because I truly appreciated the difference in his behavior. More than ever he reminded me of the man I married. I _did_ wonder though at his calm nature even as it affected my own mood.

I felt so reassured, so _safe_, now in Sheldon's company that when a knock came on our door at five in the morning three days after our arrival in Springfield, I did nothing more than roll over in bed and half-heartedly search for some sign of my husband. His side of the bed was cold. When I heard him answer the door and the soft murmur of the discussion that was immediately struck up, I realized he'd been waiting for this. Not liking this development, I stuck my head under my pillow and burrowed under the covers. It was all for naught; the mattress still sunk under someone's weight as they took a seat next to me.

"Lizzie?" A broad hand settled on my back. Instinctively, I arched into the touch. For my pains, the pillow was ripped off my head. "It's time to go, Lizzie." His voice was soft and tinged with regret.

"No it's not," I moaned, not bothering to hide again. Sheldon has no mercy; he'd take the blankets next and not give them back. But the fact that his voice was all but telling me he didn't particularly want to leave either didn't motivate me to actually get _out_ of the cozy intimacy of the bed. If I didn't want to go, and he didn't want to go, it made perfect sense to stay. At least it did in my mind.

"We have to." Either he divined my position from what I said, or he gathered his nerves, because he reached out and stroked my rampant bed hair.

_At least it's not my nose._ "No we don't. We can stay here. Or we could go home." I opened my eyes just in time to see blatant regret and understanding flit across his face. It scared me, that combination. The fact that he understood how I felt made my heart leap. _He wouldn't be able to understand if he didn't feel the same way himself. If some small part of him didn't want to come home with me. _

But the regret…

"It doesn't matter, does it?" I asked. My voice sounded weak, yet even in my own ears it seemed to be bordering on shrill. "_I_ don't matter. Chris and Mandy don't matter."

A militant look edged out the regret on his face. He tossed his head and my eyes darted past his shoulder. The voices I'd heard earlier belonged to his comrades-in-arms…who were still in the room, though they were trying very hard to look as if they couldn't hear a word of our argument. _No wonder he's drawing away from me,_ I thought, as I watched my husband. _He must feel as if I'm costing him his respect._ And that hadn't been my purpose at all.

"I'm sorry."

Sheldon nodded curtly and I watched as he deliberately relaxed his shoulders. "You're upset," he acknowledged.

"Yes." Yes, I was most definitely upset. I didn't like – I _hated_ – that his revenge was more important to him than his family. That he wouldn't even consider – no, that wasn't not fair because I would have sworn that he felt regret when I'd suggested that he might come home now even though he wasn't giving himself the option to turn his back on the insane mission still to come.

"I can't."

_How did he know what I was thinking?_

His hand slowly traveled down to my shoulder and then on to my hand where he painstakingly slipped his fingers between mine. If he hadn't been confident that none of his friends could see what he was doing, I have no doubt that he wouldn't have done it. The only reason he ever liked PDAs in the first place was because I would get flustered and embarrassed. But then, we'd so rarely spent any time around friends who were primarily "his" and not "ours."

"I can't just turn around and leave with you. Even if I wanted to. Even if they would do the same. I don't know…maybe I would consider it. But they won't leave me alone. If I don't stop them, if I don't prove they they're the ones behind all this treason and all these murders, I'll be arrested and accused in their place. You'll still lose me. And we can't just stay here because –"

"Because I won't leave Mandy and Chris on their own."

"It's not who you are."

"No. It's not." _I'm not the kind of woman who willingly follows her husband into danger either, though!_ I'd always thought I was the kind of woman who would patiently sit at home waiting for her man, but apparently that side of me had limits too. "And you're not a coward. You're not even a pacifist."

His fingertips brushed against my lips, as if he's trying to read my face and I tried to smile bravely, wondering if he'd simply read just what I was willing to let him know. His hand moved down to my cheek and I wondered if I'd given away more than I'd wanted.

Sheldon doesn't tell me what – if anything – he found on my face. All he said was, "Go take your shower. We have an eight-thirty flight."

As I walked toward the bathroom, I noticed once again that he was already fully dressed.

"Why are you up so early, Sheldon?"

He shrugged. "I had some things I needed to take care of." His closed face prevented me from asking what. "Go on. Or you won't have time to make yourself presentable."

I went on.

* * *

Price was sitting in his office going over the month's expenses. He had an accountant for this sort of thing – a chain-smoking, caffeine-addicted, light-sensitive, near-sighted, reedy bean-counter of a man. Price's lip curled in disdain at the very thought of the self-important little man, but he was useful. And as long as the wretch's gambling debts were solely in his possession, Price tolerated him. And control of his employees was one of Price's compulsions.

Shaking his head as if to rid himself of distraction, Price returned to checking the month's tallies to make sure they matched the bean-counter's books. He wouldn't put it past the man to embezzle.

When he was about halfway through, a light on his desk started to flash. He ignored the amber-colored beacon while he finished what he was doing – becoming distracted now would mean having to start over – and the red light was the one that indicated some urgency was needed. Like traffic lights, the amber light simply meant that something was about to happen.

A quarter of an hour later, and with no discrepancies found between his records and his employee's, Price put his books away and after unlocking his top desk drawer, he pulled out a remote. As he pressed the first button, shades came down and covered the windows, leaving the room in a murky twilight relieved only by his desk lamp and a one hundred gallon in-wall fish tank. The next button caused a five foot long LCD screen to descend from the ceiling. And the last button he pushed brought the display to life.

His eyes immediately found the red dot that was his quarry. It was traveling slowly south from a line that led from Savannah, Georgia. Puzzled, he looked to the key; he grinned humorlessly. Sheldon was just chock full of surprises.

He hated surprises.

It was his own fault though for not making sure someone was watching the railways. His own fault for relying on outdated information. Sheldon had always slow trains were. That they were full of morons, idiots, and aviophobics.

From now on he'd remember this lesson. He'd remember that Sands actually _wasn't_ picky when it came to completing a mission.

Getting on the phone, never taking his eyes off the light that represented Sheldon's wife, Price contacted his second in command.

"I want people at every train station between here and Tallahassee. Be on the lookout for anyone who looks out of place." He couldn't imagine that any of these seasoned agents would look particularly conspicuous, but if Sheldon was on his way, others that he wasn't able to track would be as well. And he wanted as much forewarning of this little vigilante force as he could get.

He intended to know how many guests he needed to be prepared to give his _warmest_ greeting to.

* * *

She's tired. I can feel it. Hell, _I'm_ tired, and to think that for awhile there I foolishly thought I had finally recovered from the Day of the Dead fiasco. Nineteen hours of travel will really take it out of a person.

"What time is it?" Liz mumbles. Her head is resting on my shoulder and I'm pretty sure she's about two minutes away from falling asleep.

"Midnight." Though our flight was supposed to leave at eight, it was delayed until ten. Then we were on the plane for four hours to Savannah, had an hour to eat there, and then were on the train for nearly eight hours. An hour at the train station to get our limited luggage and arrange for a rental, and here we were in a car heading out of Miami.

"Where're we going?"

"Coral Springs." Robbo is driving and he's the one that answers her, but I don't think she noticed. I don't think she's aware of much of anything at the moment.

Her breath brushes against my skin as she says, "Oh." Then her hand tucks itself into my elbow, and she repositions her head. "Are we going to spend the night somewhere?"

"Yes." I know Liz doesn't sleep well when traveling. Never has. So while the rest of us napped on the train – god knows there wasn't much else to do – she'd had to occupy herself with a cheap romance novel or some other drivel.

"Good." She lifts her head but doesn't move her hand. Strangely enough, I'm glad she doesn't. A few days ago I wouldn't have wanted her to touch me in front of others, at least not like this. Now I wish that she'd been this comfortable around me since I showed up on her doorstep. The clock's running down; I'll take this while I can.

About a half hour later – just when _I'm_ starting to doze off – Liz gently shakes my shoulder. "We're there."

"It's a miracle," I say dryly.

"Certainly seems that way." Liz nudges me again, trying to make me hurry out of the car. She'd been stuck on the inside because I can't stand not to be near the door. One of those quirks caused by losing my sight. I grin at her impatience, but don't try to hurry along. I'll only fall flat on my face from the strange sensation of being _still_. I may not be moving any longer, but it still feels as if I am. Not to mention this is a strange place and I need the time to get my bearings.

After doing a few – exaggerated – stretches, I turn and offer Liz a hand as I step back far enough to allow her out without knocking her over.

"Robbo checking us in?" I ask as she steps down from the van.

"Yeah." She's close enough that I can still smell the faint scent of the raspberry tea she had on the train on her breath, and a trace of the soap she used in the shower so long ago.

"Let's get our stuff then."

She squeezes my hand and doesn't let go as we walk around to the back of the vehicle. Good for her. I won't have to embarrass myself by fishing out my cane.

The distinctive sound of cowboy boots on pavement approaches as we get the van locked up. "We're the last ones here," Robbo reports. "I snuck a peek at the guestbook. As far as I can tell, three-fourths of the guests here are our guys under pseudonyms."

"Does that mean they're standing out like sore thumbs?" Riley asked.

"No, that means I have a better memory for names than you do."

There's silence for a moment, then I hear someone snort with laughter.

"Stop sticking out your tongue, Riley." I switch Liz's and my bag to my other hand; she's trying to take it from me. _As if I can't carry a bag._

"Here's your keycard, Mrs. Shep. I thought you might want to head for bed right away."

Suddenly, I'm much less amused. Yes, I'm well aware of the fact that there's going to be several more hours of discussion – we need to hammer out our final strategy after all – but who the hell said I was ready to let Liz leave? It wouldn't hurt anything if she stayed. It's not as if she's going to go turncoat or anything –

"Thank you." The obvious relief in Lizzie's voice makes my inner turmoil cool its heels. She's exhausted. She _wants_ to go to bed.

Good thing too, considering the way my common sense was flying out my ear. Not that I have much time to collect it again before she starts to walk away, her hand still holding fast to mine.

When I let go, I hear her stop. "Aren't you coming? It's late."

My lips quirk; apparently she hasn't realized that things are going to change now that we're no longer alone. I should have made that clear at the airport. Should have warned her about what was coming while we were at the train station. "We need to meet. Lock the door behind you. I'll probably end up crashing elsewhere tonight." Going to her bed after planning what might be my last steps would be too much for even my restraint.

"Are you sure?"

Shadowy visions of what could happen if I join her flow through my head, affecting other parts of my anatomy.

"Yes. Go get some sleep."

"Alright." She doesn't move.

I do, walking towards the motel before I give in to temptation and follow her to the room like a mooncalf.

It's the way things have to be.

* * *

It was about three in the morning when Sands let himself into the room, blessing that Robbo in his infinite lack of wisdom, had slipped him the other key card to Liz's room. He couldn't stay away. Or if he cared to be truthful, he didn't _want_ to stay away despite all the reasonable arguments about why he should.. He simply knew too much about death now. He knew it was serious business. And he thought he knew that if he and Lizzie could manage to patch their marriage in the same way they'd started to patch their relationship, he wouldn't court death anymore.

Sands knew he'd always been a thrill-seeker. Dancing with death had been attractive… until he'd come to understand what that truly meant. Feeling his blood drain out of him, feeling the mud it'd created under him…it'd made him mad. That anger had saved his life. It had set him on this path.

It'd nearly been stolen by Lizzie.

He found himself wanting the best of both worlds. He wanted Lizzie, and he wanted his revenge. The only problem was that Liz, though she _said_ she understood his desire to strike back, didn't really. She never would. And if he lived through his revenge, Sands was afraid that no matter the progress they'd made in the last few days that he'd still lose her unless he somehow bound her to him.

He couldn't turn back. This was the only road he could take.

Which was why he was so insistent on stealing this time with Liz – this piece of Liz – before leaving tomorrow evening.

Shutting the door softly behind him, Sands started getting undressed, though there were things he wanted to do before getting into bed.

"Lizzie?" he called softly from just inside the door. He did want her to wake up, but he didn't want to startle her. "Lizzie?"

"Mmm?" He heard the soft _sushing _sound of cloth rubbing against cloth as Liz moved around in the bed. "Sheldon?"

"Where's the bag?" For a moment he couldn't tell if her silence was due to her trying to remember where she'd put the bag or due to her falling asleep.

"Next to the bathroom."

"Where's the bathroom?"

"To your left."

Sands nodded and felt around for the bag with his foot. While he did so, he casually asked, "Are you still on the pill?"

She made a sound that didn't answer his question either way. It could have simply been her wondering what the hell he'd just asked. He shrugged since it didn't really matter. Having located the bag, he picked it up and moved into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Liz rolled over several minutes later when she heard him come out of the bathroom. "How'd you get in?" He was wearing a sash of some kind over his eyes tonight rather than his sunglasses. She didn't mention it; she knew he wouldn't want her to.

"Robbo had another key for the room." He was glad she'd said something. As tired as he happened to be, he'd forgotten where the bed was. "He made me take it when I volunteered to crash on the couch."

"Remind me to thank him," she mumbled as she watched him pull the blankets back and crawl into bed.

"Likewise." He reached out and pulled Liz to his side, kissing her softly before she could protest.

"Mmm." Liz relaxed and shut her eyes, allowing the kiss to go on for several minutes before she broke away. "It's happening tomorrow, isn't it?" Their voices were just another layer of darkness, another insulation against sanity and the morning that would arrive all too soon.

"Tomorrow night, yes."

"Are you sure you have to go?" Her voice was plaintive. When he didn't answer, she sighed. "I wish you didn't."

"I know. Part of me wishes that too."

"But the rest of you wants to go."

"Yes. The rest of me wants to do what I was trained to do."

"Why?"

That seemed like an odd question to him. "Why what? Don't you want to work in law?"

"No, not that."

"Then what?" He wondered if she was aware of how she was playing with his hair.

"Why did you join the CIA in the first place? You never told me." She didn't mention that he'd never had the time to since he hadn't told her the truth about his job until the night before he'd left. And she'd been too mad to wonder why he'd decided to join up until he'd been gone for a few months.

He shrugged. "They came to me because of my majors and because of my grades. At the time it seemed as good a job as any."

"There was no deeper reason then?"

"You mean, did I join to do my duty to my country? No. It was more to escape." The moment she stiffened, he winced. "That didn't come out right."

"I hope not." Liz's voice was chilly.

"We were young when we got married, Lizzie. We were young parents. And until we got pregnant I'd never considered whether or not I wanted to raise a family. But then the issue was forced, and I knew the right thing to do was to marry you and to be a father. And part of me wanted that. Part of me was thrilled. There was this other part that was scared shitless though. And that's why I took the job. I figured that if I could handle this, I could handle being a husband and father." His chest rose and fell as he laughed silently. "Didn't quite work out the way I'd expected."

"Obviously." Liz relaxed. Her fingers started moving though his hair again; it was his turn to relax at this sign of truce.

"I'm not sorry for what I did. For kidnapping you." If that was what it took for her to be here, he'd do it over and over again.

"I never thought you were." But there were other things she wondered about. "Sheldon, do you still love –"

"Shh." He brushed his thumb over her lips. He didn't want to talk about things like that tonight. If he survived through tomorrow night however, he'd talk about anything she wanted. "No more talking."

"You want to sleep?"

"No." No, sleep was the farthest thing from his mind. As if she wasn't close enough to him to know that already. "Just no more talking." He rolled her onto her back and started kissing her in a way that didn't leave any doubts about what he intended.

This time Liz didn't stop him. This time she let him do as he wished until the sun started to rise and they both fell asleep tangled in the sheets and each others' arms.

* * *

"Lizzie…it's time to wake up."

The languid, sated feeling that's in control of my body at the moment tells me he can't possibly be right. So I sigh – not without a slight trace of contentment – and attempt to fall back asleep.

"Lizzie."

There's warm fingers under my chin, lifting my face. The past few hours come back, and I automatically search for skin to kiss. My lips brush against slightly rough skin – a cheek – and my tongue darts out to taste what is mine to enjoy. "Sheldon…"

"Well, I'm glad you at least got that impression last night." He kisses me softly; I sigh as I feel his hand come to rest on my chest –

"What the hell are you doing?" I yell as he yanks the blankets away. Awareness of many things – of daylight flooding in open windows, of Sheldon's fully dressed figure, of my own naked reflection in the lenses of his sunglasses. "Sheldon! I'm naked and the curtains are open! Give those back!" I catch hold of the sheet and jerk it back, sending a futile glare of fury at my husband just in time to catch the most _irritating_ smirk of amusement on his face.

"I would have enjoyed the show," he assures me.

"Pig." I kick his hip with the intention of pushing him off the bed but he catches himself in time, turning his fall into a graceful rise to his feet.

"Time to wake up. It's already past noon."

"It is?" My anger drains away as I realize how little time that leaves before Sheldon will be going away to complete this mission of his.

"Yeah. We broke for lunch and will reconvene at two for further discussion and plans for armament." He's smirking again, but it isn't as pleasant as before. For some reason I think he feels as if all this planning is pointless…which is odd for him, actually. He likes plans. _But he doesn't like to debate them. He likes to make them and then let them stand. And if they have to be altered later, so be it._

"Get dressed, take a shower, whatever it is that you think you need to do." His orders interrupt my pondering. "I'm starved."

"Why?" I ask as I climb out of bed – the sheet still wrapped around me – and close the curtains. _Don't these people believe in breakfast?_

Arms wrap around me from behind as soft lips surrounded by bristles graze my neck. "Because I got quite a workout last night," he growls into my ear. "That's why. You're a hard woman to please – ow!" I grin; he deserved that pinch. "That was unnecessary."

"Ha."

He slaps my bum as he moves away. "Hit the shower before I decide to join you."

"You're in a good mood." The suspicion in my voice is blatant enough to make him laugh. An actual, honest-to-goodness, couldn't-be-so-effin'-happy laugh.

"Why shouldn't I be in a good mood?"

I have no good answer for him so I simply slide my arms around his waist and lay my head on his shoulder. Part of me wants to declare my renewed love here and now…but I know – somehow I know – that it'd be a mistake. So instead I say, "What're we doing for lunch?"

There was a family owned and operated Mexican restaurant not far from our motel. The building held no more than the kitchen. All the seating was outside at little square tables that were made for two but could be put together to accommodate more. No one joined us though, something I was glad for since I was prepared to go back to our room afterwards so Sheldon could go back to his meeting.

When the time came, he didn't let me go though. He took me back with him.

In hindsight that wasn't a good idea. Heck, I knew after ten minutes that I didn't really want to be in that room. It wasn't the glares of Sheldon's co-fugitives that had me turning a delicate shade of yellow – though Roberts and Riley did keep the conversation on track when a few of the less pleasant ones would have loved to start discussing my presence. And Sheldon had kept me close, as if he didn't care that everyone noticed. It's just that sitting there and listening to their plans, and strategies, and tactics did absolutely nothing to calm my fraying nerves. That I _know_ Sheldon noticed because every now and then he'd wriggle his fingers as if my grip was putting them to sleep.

Not insisting to return to my room after lunch was my first mistake. Not insisting to return to my room after dinner was my second, and the reason I can't sleep now.

I don't know what I'd been thinking. I sat there and listened to every step by step explanation of how things would unfold, of the projected body count, of what they might expect their casualties to be… None if it seemed real. These weren't conversations that normal people have. They just weren't, and they imparted a sense of unreality to the proceedings to the point where I felt as if I were watching a play.

That's when trunks, and suitcases, and duffle bags full of weapons and ammunition seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Then things became _very_ real to me. Up until that point I realized that my impressions had been based more on Beverly Hills Cop during the scene at the end when they're raiding the rich man's mansion. From the look of things, I knew that a better movie analogy for their plan was Apocalypse Now.

I can't do it. I can't sit calmly in this chair anymore and passively remember this. I need to move. Need to pace. Which is strange, because I thought I knew all there was to know about waiting. I waited years for Sheldon to come home. I've waited up for Chris when he's decided to ignore his curfew. I've waited for Mandy in the waiting room of the hospital after she ate an entire bottle of children's Tylenol. I've waited in traffic, waited in line, waited for meals in restaurants, and have become proficient at the "hurry up and wait" that is our legal system.

None of that, no matter how extensive, prepared me for this.

"Biaselli will stay here with you tonight," Sheldon told me as he strapped on holsters for no less than four guns and hid a few more on his person. I watched him miserably, unable to take any comfort from his cold, implacable face. At least he was doing this in the privacy of our room. I would have hated to make a scene in front of nearly thirty strangers. "If she doesn't get word from us by tomorrow night, she'll make sure you get to the airport. I want you to fly home, and forget about all of this, understand?"

"No, I don't think I do." _He better not be implying what I think he's implying –_

"If no one from our team has checked in by then, it means no one was able to." His face softened and he moved closer to me, a patch of blackness against the pale walls of the room. "Please, just promise me you'll go home." His hands found my shoulders, and then slipped down to my arms. His fingers kneaded the muscles there. It was reassuring in a way – as I'm sure he meant it to be – but it was an empty reassurance. "This is important to me, Lizzie."

"You know that when you put it that way, I can't say no." I'd never been able to. Not to that face, and that voice, and that uncharacteristic compassion in his face.

"Why did you think I asked?" He pulled me closer and rested his chin on the crown of my head. "You'll be safe. Price won't come after you if he has me. And I'll keep him occupied for a good long time."

"Are you sure that _you_ have to go?" I could see my face reflected in his glasses. It was pale, pinched. Miserable. "Haven't you given enough?"

"I never gave anything. Things were taken from me. And even if I didn't have to go, I would. I thought you understood that."

I understood that I was asking the impossible of him. I understood I needed say anything I want to now because there would be no second chance to convince him. "You still have your life though. And if it's taken from you, it'll be taken from me too."

"Lizzie," he whispered, a warning to _stop now_ in his voice. I ignored it. This was too important to stop.

"I do still love you."

"Don't. You're just going to get yourself hurt."

"I'd hurt if I never told you." I kissed him before he could protest; he returned it with rising passion as someone outside began to honk a horn impatiently.

"I have to go," he whispered against my forehead.

"I know." Acceptance had finally come, though it made my stomach sink into my feet.

"I can't make any promises."

"I know." He'd never been one to say anything he couldn't theoretically back up. Dying would keep him from backing up anything other than that acknowledgement.

"I can't tell you what you just said to me."

"I know. It doesn't matter. Just try to stay alive."

His lips quirked. "Sounds like my wife is all grown up." He kissed my forehead. "Remember, I want you to leave if –"

"I remember. Go, they're waiting for you."

"Good god, they should have recruited you instead of me," Sheldon muttered as he resolutely walked towards the door.

Amused, I called out after him, "Eye of the tiger!" He'd kept saying that to me while I was in labor with Chris. The lyrics made more sense for him now than they ever did for me.

"I expect to hear the rest when I get back," he demanded.

Then he was gone.

* * *

It was an uneasy time for the two women who were left behind at the motel. Biaselli was on edge, partly from nerves, partly from the assignment she'd been given. She didn't really have anything against Sands' wife, but she was CIA, not the Secret Service. Just because she was the youngest of the group and because she'd still been in her last year of the special one-on-one training that the most promising cadets received meant nothing in her mind. If all had gone according to plan, she'd be a fully fledged officer now, and she'd certainly seen enough action to not be a danger to anyone on the team. She'd give anything to be out there now rather than in here with the silent, pale, restless wraith that Liz had turned herself into.

She hadn't meant to do it. Not really. Liz wasn't even aware of her current likeness to a ghost. All she knew was that she was cold, so she'd put on the fluffy white robe Sands had stolen from that hotel in Springfield.

"You should try to get some rest," Biaselli said as she rested her hand on the gun at her hip.

Liz shrugged. She wasn't going to be sleeping anytime soon, so she saw no point in lying down. A quick glance at the other woman as she paced past her though convinced Liz that it'd be smart to stop acting so nervous. It was only succeeding in making her companion nervous as well.

Sitting on the bed, Liz turned on the TV, made sure the volume was low, and started flipping through the channels. Something would grab her attention and take it off her growing certainty that something was wrong…

_BAM!_

"Get down!"

Liz didn't have time to react. Her frazzled mind took in the wide open door and her companion in one instant, registered that the noise splintering her eardrums was gun fire in the next, and knew that when the other woman dropped to the floor, it wasn't because she'd taken cover.

That didn't mean that a single muscle in her body was willing to cooperate with her though.

Liz sat on top of the bed, frozen, her eyes wide in her white face, unable to do more than watch as a troop of men dressed in black and heavy body armor stormed in. They were yelling at her, searching the room…one man near the back spoke into a radio.

Still unable to speak, she sat still – as if calm, as if used to this violence.

When a well-dressed man came in, she knew who it was.

"They didn't believe that you actually died." Her voice sounded tinny in her ears, almost inaudible after the barrage of gunfire that had come before her abrupt appearance before her.

"They're not the ones I'm worried about," Phillip Masden said as calmly as she. "I trust I can convince you to come with us without having to use this?" He held up a syringe.

Liz wasn't going to risk finding out what was in it. Not when it came to dealing with these people.

"I'll come."

When she was hustled past the dead body of the woman who'd been left behind to guard her, she wished she'd put up a struggle.

* * *

**Author's Thanks**: my eternal (or at least profuse) thanks to…**Merrie** (hey! You were the first one to review this time around! Been awhile since that's happened. :P I prefer Denny's to IHOP. Always will. So there. And the shower scene with Sands and Liz was one of my top five favorite scenes in this fic.); **Lynx** (I thought that the change in Sands – from not caring what happened with Liz but not really wanting to see her harmed, to having him think that seeing her harmed would be a very bad thing and that he wouldn't like it at all, was a believable character arch. If they hadn't had a history together though, it would have been jumping the gun. :P Once again, I _limed_ writing that shower scene.); **quick29** (I love music, and it tends to creep into my stories. Along with my love of Denny's. ;P); **Mayorst** (this is your chapter, chica! Thanks for all the music you send me to keep me going. :D I can't believe that 'Aida' snuck into the last chapter. I corrected so many of them too.); **Dawnie-7** (hope you're settling into your new home in time for the holidays. I moved myself awhile back, and it wasn't as traumatic as I thought it would be.); **LadySparrowJack** (I'm glad Liz has turned into a character who is a match for Sands. Not a lovematch – though I think a lot of you are thinking that – but a match in all the other ways that count as well. And oddly enough, it's not even something I set out to do. It just happened.); **doctress** (I don't know if I was trying to foreshadow anything in the last chapter because I'm not even sure what's going to happen in the next chapter. I haven't made any decisions that can't be changed.); **CaptainJackSparrowsGirl** (Don't feel bad about not reviewing. After all, the fics are always here, and you can review whenever you please. And I totally understand computer problems and how they involve ffn – I'm just glad to hear from you whenever you can drop a line.); **Rogue-Pirate** (lol. I start updating each fic more than once a month, and all of a sudden I'm hounded if I go a week without updating. Wow. ;P); **Cayenne Pepper Powder** (great to hear from you, you impatient little pepper corn. .) 


	11. Chapter Ten

**Author's Note: **_I am so sorry!_ This chapter was never supposed to take this long to be written. First was the holidays and I was caught up in finishing 'Fractured Secrets' and then I started this chapter and got about halfway through…and my creativity _crashed_. I couldn't seem to get anything written. Realizing this didn't have to be the "be all and end all" chapter helped, but it still took me forever.

Sorry.

Hopefully the quality is good enough to make up for the wait. I promise you won't have to wait another three months for the next chapter.

(Long overdue) Author thanks at the end.

* * *

All was quiet. I should know. I've been turning my head in every direction on the compass trying to pick up any sound that might indicate that things are not as they should be.

"Damn, but you're jumpy."

_Alright, not so quiet._ The voice came from just over my shoulder – not surprising since we're yet in our rubber rafts, standard issue and stolen from the local Navy base – and if it'd been a decibel louder, I would have been forced to slug the man for giving us away. _Which would really only add insult to injury since sound carrying over water is what'd make me slug him in the first place a body that big hitting the water produce quite a bit of noise itself…_

"I forgot that you always get jumpy like a racehorse at the gate, nothin' but an eager bundle of nerves –"

"Shut _up_, Robbo," I hiss back under my breath. His depiction of me as an overexcited kid on Christmas morning is less than flattering. Besides, it's rather like the pot calling the kettle black since he could never keep a rein on his tongue right before everything went down.

"Is that any way to treat a friend?"

_I rest my case. _

"I think I'd take exception to that if I had the time." There's the soft noise of equipment shifting against the fiberglass bottom of our "raft," and Robbo helpfully adds, "We're all but there. See you on shore." He squeezes my shoulder and lets go; I know he's gone. My mind's eye sees him slipping into dark water without leaving a single faux-bull's eye ripple to mark his passage, just as ten others in our group are doing. Armed with nothing but their black rubber wetsuits and a knife. The outer sentries _had_ to be neutralized without fanfare; without the blaze of bomb-inspired fire or the grim cadence of gunfire.

Even though I'm sitting in the shadow of my revenge, I find it in myself to feel cheated that those ten officers went ashore without _me_. Once I would have been part of the group. Even now I can move without making a sound…but not without making sure I'm not seen. I can still take a man out before he knows what's happening, but only if they make a sound to give reveal themselves.

It kills me just as much to not be involved in all of this as it would have to simply walk away with Lizzie and leave this business in the hands of others.

I wonder what that says about me. _Bitter grapes and the dog in the manger. Damn._ At least neither Aesop nor Lizzie are around to point out my foibles. I'm especially thankful that Lizzie is safe and sound back at the hotel. Not only can she give me a painfully accurate reflection of myself, but she'd be totally out of her depth here. I'm relieved that I don't have to worry about her even if part of me wishes she was closer at hand so that when the dust has settled, I'd be able to get to her faster, or – heaven forbid – she'd be able to come find me in the midst of the battlefield.

The image of Lizzie as a battlefield widow is enough to make my stomach give in to nausea. _Sea-sickness, nothing more._ Ha. Liz would force herself to face blood and mutilation for me. _Damn the woman._ I shake my head at my own foul temper. Lizzy doesn't need to be damned; my inability to keep my mind on the job ahead is what needs to be damned. The past week may have brought me closer to my wife, but it's taken me farther from the man I need to be tonight than's safe.

The bottom of our raft scrapes against rock. Apparently our advance team did their business while I was mooning over Lizzie. It's time to distance myself from my family and tuck away the clothes that I feel have been loaned to me by Liz's husband. It's time for me to become the other man, the one who was left after the devastation of being tempted by south-of-the-border dreams.

Regretfully, I tuck away the mental photograph of Lizzy that I've been carrying around with me since I woke up in a hospital bed in Langley. If there's time, I can take it out later. But I can't afford to have it distracting me now, not if I don't want to make her that battlefield widow I was imaging earlier.

One by one, my compatriots slip out of the raft, leaving me alone to wait for Price's men. Without their weight the raft starts to move with the action of the waves; since I don't go far, I safely assume they moored me to the dock. It'd be a shame to simply float away now. Decoy's can't do their jobs if they're not in sight, and out here in the open only a blind man – _There's my sense of humor again._ – could miss me. Floodlights sweep back and forth over this area every fifty-seven seconds. If all was timed right, the rest of the team was out of sight in those short moments between illumination. It's certainly something that we ran through enough times to carry off, though there's no accounting for incompetence in others.

_-Thump, thump, thump, thump-_ As more booted feet reach the wooden dock, individual footsteps become less distinct. All I know is that there's a lot of heavily armed men coming my way.

_Looks like the decoy's doing its job._ As if I haven't a care in the world, I pull a cigarette out of my pocket and light up before offering no resistance as I let the bastards pull me onto dry land.

* * *

Pajamas, Liz decided, did not help anyone feel brave. She knew she must have made a picture, sitting on a leather couch in an office where the décor probably cost more than her first car – hell, than her current car – while she was dressed in cheap pajamas, a stolen robe, and one slipper. The other had gotten lost somewhere between the motel and here. Wherever here was.

_I'm never leaving my home again,_ she vowed as she fought not to curl up into a little defensive ball. Since the moment she'd been put in this room she'd been left alone and the silence was starting to cow her. There wasn't even the soft ticking of a clock to help ease her sense of isolation, and no pictures on the walls to distract her mind. Or at least there were none that she could make out in the dim light, and no light switches to relieve the gloom either. The room's windows showed nothing but the night outside, livened by the occasional sweep of light showing where a lighthouse marked rougher seas near the mainland.

She had no illusions about what her purposes for being here were. Her husband's Mr. Masden had eyes the color of tombstones, except without their – the tombstone's – warmth and sympathy. Why anyone would ever make him a regional director or mistake him for anything but a government agent, she didn't know. She shivered, chilled as much by the air around her as by the memory of the look in those cold grey eyes. As by the memory of poor Biaselli –

_Stop it,_ she ordered herself, wrapping her arms around her knees – both to conserve warmth and to make a smaller target. It wasn't long after that that she was slowly beating her forehead against the knobby projections, trying to force another image – any other image – into her mind.

So preoccupied was she, so tightly closed were her eyes, that Liz didn't notice when the door opened to admit another occupant to the room. She didn't notice his slightly contemptuous gaze as it took in her dress and posture.

This – _this?_ – was Sands' wife. Price could barely believe it. This cowering creature actually appealed to Sheldon? Price was well aware of his former protégé's penchant for control, but he also relished a challenge, and what challenge could there be in this pathetic mass in front of him? _No wonder he preferred Mexico to living a distressingly ordinary life with her,_ he thought cynically.

_ Well, there's no point in delaying. Sheldon should be here soon and his little troop will be getting down to work._ He sighed. It really would be a shame to blow this place sky-high, but it couldn't be helped. And toying with Liz would at least help pass the time.

It never occurred to Price that Sands' wife could have more of a backbone to her than met the eye.

The door opened again, this time with a rattle of china. Price watched as his "guest" started, her head flying up.

The open door was like a beacon in the dimly lit room, drawing her eyes to the doorway and the armed man just beyond. She never noticed the man with the tray of steaming coffee; he was irrelevant. He wasn't armed that she could see so therefore not a danger. It was the man just beyond the doorway that captured her attention. He ignored the man with the tray as if totally confident of his superiority over his surroundings, and watched her as if she were a puzzle, a code to be broken and solved.

Watching him with as much care as he afforded her, Liz slowly uncurled. Her back straightened as her feet – her ridiculous feet with one slipper on and one slipper off – touched the floor. By some act of pure will, her neck continued to support her head. With her hands curled easily in her lap – an act of concentration – she looked like a woman of impeccable manners despite her dress. She looked as if she'd come calling for an afternoon chat. Or at least she would have if she could have completely tucked away the alarm in her eyes, if she could have relaxed her posture a bit so it was more natural, if she could have wiped away the thin film of sweat that was forming on her upper lip.

She dissembled well; Price would give her that. But he was an expert at reading people. She was afraid of him.

He didn't think much of her, Liz could see that. He'd taken in every aspect of her appearance in mere moments and had obviously found her lacking. Irreverently, she wondered if she'd measure up if she'd had _two_ slippers instead of one, and the thought helped her relax. It was a thought that her husband would have had and shared with her had he been here. A single eyebrow rose as she raised her chin; she _dared_ him to comment on her slippers. _What ridiculousness._ Still, a challenge was a challenge and she couldn't afford to_ not_ make one right now.

Price nodded abruptly, breaking the tension and motioning for the man with the tray to come in and set his burden on the table in front of Liz.

Once they were alone again, Price came nearer. Liz studied his face as he took a seat across from her. Strangely, he looked…normal. There was no cruelty hidden in his eyes as there had been in Masden's. He didn't act as if he had to be looking over his shoulder unlike the agents that Liz had met so far, as he should if he had any idea what was being planned and carried out right now. And he must know that, mustn't he? Why else would she be here?

"If you have questions to ask, by all means, ask them," Price invited as he leaned forward and filled to cups with hot coffee. Liz watched the steam rise, then eyed the turtle neck and sports coat that Price wore, and suddenly she knew what she wanted to ask. "Do you always keep it so cold in here or is your AC broken?"

Price, who had been stirring cream into his coffee, glanced up at her in surprise. She foolishly felt smug satisfaction. If nothing else, she'd managed to ask a question he hadn't been prepared for. However, he recovered disappointingly fast.

"I'm sorry my hospitality isn't up to your standards, Eliza. I may call you Eliza, can't I? Since your husband and I were such good friends."

Liz stayed silent, not telling him that she went by "Liz" for a reason. She knew from years of parenting and living with Sands that the worst thing to do would be to rise to the bait.

"I'll take your silence for acceptance." He relaxed into his chair. "I apologize for the crude method that Mr. Masden used to get you here. It is not the method I would have preferred, but then again, crudity has it's place, as do employees like Masden. I can assure you though that he won't bother you again." He must have seen her suspicion at his phrasing for his smiled a secret sort of smile and added, "I'm afraid that Mr. Masden used up his usefulness."

* * *

The moment I hear the amusement that accompanies this pronouncement, I know that Price is ten times more dangerous than Masden is. Was. The man who took me from my motel room was just merciless. The man in front of me is _smart_ and merciless. And what's more, he seems to find humor in the fact that he's just had someone killed – I doubt he got his hands dirty himself.

"I'm surprised," he says before I have a chance to verbally respond to his last shocking statement. "Most women – most _people_ – in your position would have long ago demanded to know why they'd been…invited…to share my company."

"I think I have a good idea of what my purpose here is," I whisper through a throat gone dry with terror. "But how did you know –"

"I made it my business several years ago to get your dentist under my employ." Inadvertently I raise my hand to my cheek, having seen one too many episodes of X-Files to misunderstanding what he was implying, and he laughed at me. Not just a well-mannered chuckle, or a simple laugh at my stupidity, but a roar of delight that had him throwing his head back and crowing his delight. "You really _are_ innocent," he gasped as he looked at me again; his eyes twinkled as if to invite me to join in with him, but humor at my expense is something I rarely join in with willingly. "However did you survive being married to Sheldon?"

"His being gone most of the time helped," I mutter. Now I'm simply being defiant, but I don't care. He seems to think I'm ignorant; I'm not. I'm a fully grown woman and Sheldon – "He told me everything."

"Did he now?" Price sounds both disbelieving and…disenchanted. "Well that's just a shame. I never though Sheldon would turn into one of those whiney, broken tale-bearing officers who have to confess everything to rid themselves of a burden of guilt and horror they're too weak to–"

"He's not weak," I interrupt. Righteous anger is an emotion that won't get me much at the moment, yet it's still fizzing through my bloodstream.

Price just raises an eyebrow at me. "Well, if he's not weak, then I assume that you _do_ know everything. Tell me, which was worse to hear about? The woman he took to his bed or the up to three hundred citizens that were injured and killed in the coup d'etat he orchestrated?"

Some small part of me realizes that every moment spent blinking at this man in total… total… It's a waste of time. His words were said with the intention of hurting me. That was his only motive. That's why he revealed _two_ bits of disturbing information. He wanted to make sure that one would find its mark. I _know_ that and the knowing should rob the words of their power, but it doesn't. And my pathetically devastated denial of "no" lets Price know just how deeply his words carved.

"I take it he left out the uncomfortable parts then. The parts that might portray him in a bad light. That might make…reconciliation…difficult."

His words wormed his way into my head until I wasn't sure what upset me more; my kidnapping, Sheldon's…affair, or the fact that he deliberately set out on a course that would hurt the innocent.

"I can tell you more if you'd like –"

"No!" I'm puzzled as to why my voice is so raspy until I notice that I'm fighting tears.

"Come now, Eliza. Hiding from the truth won't do you any good at all." I never thought hearing a smirk in another man's voice would ever be more grating than the one usually in Sheldon's, but this one is. "I really think you need to know…"

I didn't listen yet I heard every word of what he was saying. I denied it, I tried to ignore it, I tried to justify it…

I couldn't.

* * *

Liz's inattention could perhaps be attributed to shock. The man that Price had just described to her was so unfamiliar to her that she could deny him completely…yet something about him resonated of Sands with the intensity of the low hum of a bagpipe's bass drone. Without it, the music could come from any instrument. Liz wasn't fully aware of what Price had said, but the low drone of what she called _Sheldon_ was there.

Deafened – paralyzed – by that drone, she missed the heavy tread of booted footsteps as they slowly got louder. Price, who was not tied up in mental and emotional knots, grinned. It'd been considerate of Sands not to set additional guards over his bride, so thoughtful to not have kept a microphone on her to alert him to the slightest danger to her pretty blond head. _It's typical Sheldon,_ he gloated silently. Leave the little woman for her own safety, never mind that she was more vulnerable alone than she'd ever be if he'd simply take the time to fully bring her into his plans. It was good to see that the intervening years between leaving for Mexico and returning in defeat hadn't driven home that particular lesson.

How he was going to delight in the coming destruction.

Price saw the exact moment that the approaching footsteps pulled Liz out of her neverland of bewilderment. The hope and premature triumph in her eyes served no purpose but to allow him to read her mind; she thought help was on the way. Killing that hope was the most fun he'd had all day.

In a motion that was as smooth as butter, Price moved to sit next to his captive while pulling out his semi-automatic to point. "Not a word," he murmured as the doors flew open to reveal a group of ten or so heavily armed men. "We're going to have a bit of fun." His arm draped around her shoulders like a scarf made of lead; the barrel of his weapon was cold against the bare skin of her neck.

Sands felt rough hands push him into an empty space, and though he had no idea where he was or what was about to happen, he relaxed. Tucked away in the midst of so many, he'd felt acutely claustrophobic. He hadn't been able to pick out a single distinct footstep much less hear enough that'd give him some clue as to his surroundings.

"You can go." Sands' bristled as he recognized the voice, but he forced himself to keep projecting a very relaxed and oh-so-confident persona. The doors closed and he felt further gratitude; those echoing footsteps would have confused him for several moments, moments he probably couldn't afford to waste.

"Sheldon, this is a pleasant surprise." Price's voice was rich with amusement, as it usually was since he saw irony nearly everywhere. "You're looking well."

Sands fought the urge to snap at the man; a display of temper would get him nowhere. In fact, the moment he stopped being amusing, he was likely to get himself shot and that would be a pity. Not that he wasn't armed – apparently no one saw him as much of a threat – but it'd hurt like hell.

Using the voice as a guide, Sands cautiously walked forward until his thigh brushed against a chair. He sat and lit up a cigarette, then regretted it as the smell of smoke wiped out a light, delicate scent that was…familiar in some way.

"I'm surprised at you, Sheldon. Don't you know those things are bad for your health?"

All Sands could smell now was his cigarette so he put that other vaguely familiar scent out of his mind. For all he knew Price had just washed his hands. "I'm already going to hell in a hand basket. Don't see that it matters much."

Despite her confusion over his character and hurt at what he hadn't trusted her enough to tell her, Liz's heart broke at this declaration. Did he truly think so little of himself? She opened her mouth to object but Price just tapped her chin with his gun. When she turned her head as if to look at him, he winked at her.

"It may not matter to you, but you're not exactly alone."

Sands snorted. "Enough chitchat. You know how small talk gets on my nerves."

"You always were insatiably curious," Price all but sneered.

Sands almost sounded bored as he replied. "And meddlesome. Don't forget that."

"How could I when the reminder is staring me right in the face." Price paused, then said with syrupy sympathy, "Oh, so sorry. I forgot that was a sensitive subject."

Liz couldn't see Price's face, but she didn't really need to. The cruelty that'd driven him to mock Sands' handicap was more than obvious. From the way Sands' lips twisted she could he'd picked up on it, but for some reason she couldn't fathom, he seemed… amused. Not that feeling her own frustrated anger would serve him better.

"Not only have I heard every variation of that slur, Bill, but I've thought up a few of my own." Sands kept his voice light, but his tone still warned Price that whether he'd heard it all or not, he'd be unhappy if the not-so-funny joke were repeated.

"Yes, you always did have a smart mouth." Price no longer sounded amused. Sands had used his tongue to grate away at his arrogance often in the past and Price wasn't the kind of man who'd thank a colleague for pointing out his failings, much less for using them to sharpen their wit at his expense. "A pity they didn't rip out your tongue instead. I could have told them it was the bigger threat." His arm tightened around Liz's neck until she had to stop breathing or lean into him. "Perhaps I'll have to track down dear Eliza to ensure that your loose tongue won't cause me problems from the grave."

From the corner of her eye Liz saw Sands freeze, either furious at the taunt that Price had known what was going to happen to him and hadn't raised a hand to stop it, or irritated at the threat to her. Still, she doubted it rivaled her own sudden paralyzing fear. Fear for him. The threat against her was meant to hurt _Sands_; she doubted she was in danger of being tortured by anything other than seeing Sands harmed. Still the venom that would lead a man to make so gory a threat indicated a deep, deep, hate…

* * *

My first reaction is a nearly overwhelming need to grab Price by the throat and demand to hear what he knows about Lizzie. My second reaction is that he's fishing, trying to trick me into revealing whether or not I told Lizzie anything of consequence. Hard on the heels of that comes irritation. Once Price realizes he's lost, he'll blow this place sky high or something, and that'll be the end of any attempts to clear the names of dozens of agents. And that has to come first. _Then_ I can grab Price by the throat and demand to hear when he knows about Lizzie.

So I force my face to relax as I drop the stub of my cigarette on the floor and grind it into the carpet. "First you use the lamest jokes in the book, and then the most clichéd threat known to romance writers across the world. You really need to choose your weapons with a bit more care, Bill."

"What would you suggest? That I have a gun pointed at your gut under the table? That is the kind of _subtle_ method that you prefer, is it not?"

"_A la_ Hans Solo? Sure, but why bother hiding a gun under a table at a time like this? It's not as if I can see if you have a gun. Besides, out in the real world it'd be rather conspicuous if you were suddenly short an arm. What you need is a fake third arm. They're very effective."

"How enlightening. I never would have assumed you still preferred displays of brute power over a more complex strategy. You never were able to play on the level of a good shadow government. You were too showy"

"Shadows are too easy to drive away," I counter. _Except for mine, of course._ "People expect flash, so why not use it to…blind…them?"

"Care to put your money where your mouth is?"

"I can't believe you're thinking about that at a time like this." Alright, I'm not actually surprised. Price will go a long way to prove a point, but this is ridiculous. And there's that _scent_ again. What _is_ it?

"_I_ have all the time in the world. You'll play white this time since you made the opening gambit of coming here in the first place."

"You know I prefer black." I'm almost surprised when he doesn't start in on how _"I always was a reactionary," _but not disappointed. That's one refrain I can go without hearing for a long time. Doesn't anybody realize just how little people truly change once they're adults and set in their ways?

I hear the creak of leather and Price's self-satisfied voice say, "Are you asking for a handicap?"  
I really ought to since I've never played chess without looking at the board before, but I don't particularly care if I win or lose at the moment. In fact, I want to get the game done with as soon as I can.

"Pawn to E4."

"Pawns…so easy to sacrifice. Pawn to E5. Like that old man in the guitar town you had sacrificed to get your first knight into play."

I stifle my surprise at hearing that Price would know of – or even remember – the death of a complete nobody. "Heard about that, did you? I didn't know you cared. Knight to F3."

"Pawn to D6. Of course I heard about it. I may have let Masden and others like him to monitor and eliminate other agents across the globe, but you three I wanted to handle myself, seeing as how I trained you. Or at least I thought I had. After the way you all stumbled around in the dark, unable to find your own asses, I had my doubts. I kept hoping that you, or Roberts, or Riley would put the pieces together…connect my strategy. It would have cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars, but it would have been worth it to know whether or not you had the intellect to join my little enterprise. Needless to say you're all great disappointments."

"Bishop to C4. Who was your inside man?" He'd better not say –

"Someone who enjoys chess nearly as much as I do."

"Ajedrez," I whisper, cursing under my breath while I fight the urge to tear out my hair.

"Indeed." He's laughing at me. "Bishop to G4."

"She was a good lay, but not nearly worth trouble she caused. Just what did you offer her?" It doesn't matter since she'd dead. Or at least that's what I tell myself. But I had been prepared to throw Lizzie over for her. Thank God Lizzie's safely tucked away. I don't deserve her, but at least she'd never consort with my enemies.

_That's_ what that scent reminds me of – a freshly out of the shower Lizzie.

"Nothing. In her guise as a good little AFN agent, she contacted the Company and they routed her to Masden who passed her information along to me."

"And did you –"

"Make a move, Sheldon."

"Knight to C3. Did you know she was Barillo's daughter?"

"Let's just say it didn't take me nearly as long for me to find out as it did for you. Another disappointment. Much like this game. Your heart isn't in it."

"Well, you know how it is. Places to go, people to see. An eager wife waiting back home to make all of this finally go away."

"Sheldon, Sheldon, Sheldon." That mockingly patient voice irritates my nerves at the same time it chills them. "There's nothing about your life that I don't know. I thought I'd explained that. You know how I feel about loose ends. I couldn't risk that you'd told her something dangerous…mentioned my name at some point in time. There was _nowhere_ safe to leave Eliza."

My heart is racing fast enough to make me a little dizzy. Or perhaps that's an effect of not breathing. But how can I when my mind is telling me that's why I've been smelling that scent…that it got all over Price as he killed Lizzie.

_I can't fall apart, damnit! Not even for her._ If she's dead, there's nothing I can do for her. If she's nearby and _dying_…there's still nothing I can do for her other than stand helplessly by her side.

Nothing changes how I have to stay here and keep Price talking.

I breathe deeply – though my spinning mind tries to construe that as a betrayal – and say, "What are you getting at? Are you going to send me after an unmarked grave when we've finished our business?" _If she's dead, so are you._ Now it's more than personal to see Price on his way into the great beyond. Now it's more than revenge.

"Fallen queens aren't given unmarked graves, Sheldon. Their bodies are held in state, evidence of the new regime's superiority. It's the way of the world." There's a soft grunting sound and a body suddenly impacts mine. It lays limply against my chest before shuddering and pressing closer; the fresh scent of soap wafts up to surround my head.

_Lizzie. _I instinctively wrap my left arm around her body, leaving my left free to draw my weapon when the time comes.

"Mate and checkmate," Price murmurs.

* * *

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Liz didn't know what she had done that was worth apologizing for, but there must have been something. The look on Sands' face just before she had found herself in his lap had been so _awful, _so full of unpleasant surprise, that she felt as if she had somehow actively participated in deceiving him. His trust was so fragile a thing that she feared that by not putting up a fight, for not having enough of a spine to make her presence known earlier, for allowing him to be blindsided, she had collaborated with Price. It was irrational, but then, this wasn't an environment conducive to keeping a level head.

It was that same baseless sense of guilt that led her to attempt to pull away from him, though the last thing she wanted was to give up the shelter of his arms. To risk making him uncomfortable, to take away his concentration…those were things she couldn't do. Not when it could mean his life. That was a prize she found herself even more reluctant to surrender than the heat and strength of his body.

There was just one problem: Sands was unwilling to let her go.

She was so close to him that his lips brushed against her hair as he spoke. "It's alright. Don't move just yet." His arm tightened around her waist, keeping her where she was. As heartless as it seemed, Liz did make a good shield. One that was an unlooked for blessing in the midst of what was quickly turning into a fiasco. No, he wasn't planning to sacrifice her in the line of duty; there were no visions of body shields running through his head. Though her presence complicated many things, it also made one thing easier: as long as she was in his lap, Price couldn't see what he was doing.

"Sheldon," she whispered helplessly. Liz badly wanted to question his decision, but the slight tightening of his mouth – the only part of his face visible to her – was enough to warn her to keep her tongue. Being near him provided her with a deceiving sense of safety but Liz knew she was still far out of her depth…and that her husband wasn't. She had little choice but to obey him instantly and without question. So when Sands' arm tightened around her a bit more, she obediently rested her head against his chest.

Sands felt her decision in the tension that took possession of her body. Liz was a trembling mass in his arms. Her trust was obviously something she battled to give him. He wished that her offering didn't have the bittersweet power to touch him. Life was easier when he was the only one he had to look out for. Now he could only hope that she was ready to move as soon as he gave the order.

"How touching," Price drawled. Sands had never forgotten the other man's presence, but Liz nearly levitated out of his lap. She'd never been one for public displays of affection, and now, though the heat of embarrassment beat off the chill of the room, she forced herself not to respond. If she'd met Price in some sort of normal setting – on the street, at a get together, in some sort of social or business setting – she wouldn't have hesitated to give the man a piece of her mind. It was an unsettling realization that _anyone_ she met under those so-called "normal situations" could be as violent as this man was under his thin veneer of public civility.

"Really, Sheldon, how do you put up with such a mouse?"

"Simple; got her pregnant." Sands' words were dry, sardonic. It was a familiar – if usually teasing and possibly emotionally unhealthy – retort between he and Liz, but Price wouldn't know that. He wouldn't catch on to the undercurrent of assurance he was trying to pass on to his wife as a reward for her trust. All his former mentor would see was responsibility…one Sands had apparently escaped at his first opportunity. "Besides, she's not usually so much trouble. If she were, I might have reconsidered." _Probably would have been more careful, made sure she finished school so she'd be happier and more occupied._

"Women," Price agreed in a perfect tone of male commiseration that had Liz grinding her teeth. Sands heard her and tugged a lock of her hair in lieu of laughing softly at her irritation.

_With an attitude like that, I doubt he's ever had a **woman**, _Liz fumed, not at all placated by Sands' words _or_ his touch. Besides, this weak anger was better than either fear or humiliation.

"I'm glad you feel that way, Price continued, unaware that he was being scorned by his "captives." "I'd hate for you to be pining away for her in the afterlife."

"Oh yes," Sands agreed, _really_ wishing he had eyes to roll. _Seriously, sometimes there's no retort so elegant a well-placed roll of the eyes. _The arrogance in here was stifling, and considering how much he himself usually exuded, that was saying something. "Just think of all the opportunities I'll have to sneak into women's bedrooms once I'm a ghost. And there'll be nothing for the angry husbands to come after." _Com'on, you jackasses. I've only got so many guns._ If his compatriots didn't take out the barracks and the generators in the next few minutes, things were going to get ugly.

The lack of gunfire outside should have been comforting, but Sands suspected that this room was soundproofed. He had no evidence that he wasn't twisting in the wind.

Creaking leather alerted Sands to Price's movements. "As much as I've enjoyed our little chat," he drawled, his voice coming from a couple of feet higher than it had been, "I'm afraid time is running short. I have a helicopter waiting, and you…well…" Price let the implications of his words speak in his place. "I know you have no intention of allowing me to leave here alive, but if I die, so does your family. Not just your lovely wife, but your children as well."

Liz tensed in Sands' lap at this threat against her children, part of her needing to jump up and do _something_ to defend her loved ones. Only Sands' arm around her waist kept her from doing anything stupid.

"Don't I get a chance to say goodbye?" Sands asked, stalling for time. Soundproofed or not, the explosions he was counting on would be clearly heard and felt, even here. He just needed to keep Price distracted and in the room for a bit longer.

"You've seen too many movies," Price grumbled, but he didn't protest. He'd seen how uncomfortable his presence made Liz, how she was embarrassed to be trapped in her rather undignified position in front of him. Let her suffer a bit more before he killed off the husband who felt so little compassion for her that he would take what he could from her even now.

"Sheldon, don't," Liz protested as Sands pulled her more firmly against him, not that she really expected him to listen. And he didn't.

"Please, no," she whispered as he ignored her and lowered his head towards her. She brought her hands up to push him away, unwilling to accept that he would _dare_ kiss her Goodbye Yet at the first touch of his lips against hers, her resistance melted away and she found herself cupping his face as she kissed him rather desperately. She couldn't accept that he would simply sit here and let her go while he waited behind for death. It wasn't in his character to so passively accept a clearly unacceptable fate. Besides, he wasn't here alone. He had friends somewhere on the island at the very least. He wasn't really giving up. Not on life. Not on her.

Please, not on her.

Sands tasted her fear, but ignored it like he had to. Their margin for error was quickly shrinking and he couldn't afford to let either of them give into her emotions.

Her hand felt small and cold in his as he grasped it and pulled it away from his face. His other hand stayed behind her head, holding her to his kiss in preparation for the outrage that would explode any moment –

"Sheldon!" she gasped, jerking her hand away from his zipper. She was _not_ about to do…_that_…when they weren't alone. However, her husband captured her mouth again, his lips and tongue working to distract her as he simply swallowed her protests and gently guided her hand back to his fly, squeezing it once as if in supplication.

In spite of their rather deadly serious situation, Sands found himself starting to unwillingly respond to her as she hesitantly pulled down his zipper. Part of him obviously had _no_ sense at all as his blood started to heat, but he ignored it, brushing her hand away when she would have done what she thought he wanted from her. _Her hands are like ice, her hands are like ice,_ he repeated to himself as he reached inside his pants – using her for a cover – and wrapped his fingers around the small one-shot pistol hidden there.

Freeing himself enough to return a bit of her desperation, he kissed her hard and pressed the gun briefly into her hand. She understood the silent message that he'd gotten what he wanted, and she carefully pulled the zipper back into place.

He broke away, and kissed her a few more times before whispering, "Don't cry for me, Argentina," against her ear. Then he stood, dumping her off his lap.

* * *

**Author Thanks:** many, many, many thanks to all of you for being so patient and not getting on my case (though I admit it may have helped), and for not sending me e-mails full of threats to tar and feather my cat or steal my Photoshop something. :P 

**Mayorst** (Eye of the Tiger – it's very Sands if you ask me. He seems like the kind of guy who'd be a Rocky fan. I don't know why, but there it is. I present my neck for ringing, both for where I stopped and for how long it took me to pick back up.); **Spoofmaster** (don't worry about forgetting to review a chapter – I almost forgot to write this one. slaps forehead I only wish I were a writing machine); **quick29** (things never go as planned in my universe. And I don't know what I'd do without my cliffies.); **Merrie** (see what I can do when you're not here:P If things never went wrong just as they were going right, stories would be pretty boring, wouldn't you agree? . Anyway, frustrating is the new endearing.); **Dawnie-7** (yeah, poor Biaselli, I'm thinking about making her critically injured instead of dead, but probably not. I try not to resurrect people I kill off.); **misc** (raises right hand I solemnly swear that the next chapter will be out by the end of March at the latest, unless I fall into a coma or die. Or am completely paralyzed and have to use one eyelid to communicate the rest of the chapter.); **Lynx** (Sands really isn't too good for Liz, but she's very good for him, and they would have had a great marriage if you know, he hadn't lied about his profession and been gone most of the time for half of it… I know what you mean about travel. There's been days when I've spent over half of it in a van or a plane or something, and it always exhausts me, even if I nap most of the time. I thought that little detail would make my characters more real. lol – the whole 'Eye of the Tiger' thing is just so very Sands. The whole sarcastic, want to slap him, want to hug him to pieces after screaming at him thing.); **LadySparrowJack** (here's that chapter and hopefully it was worth the wait.); **Desperado1102** (utterly monstrous but so alluring…doesn't that sum Sands up perfectly by the end of OUATIM? If not for "Chiclet," he would have been totally unredeemable, but there's these specks of humanity that shine through now and then. Totally intriguing. It's what made me want to write this fic in the first place, to explore that more. I'm really want to apologize for the update lag – hopefully it hasn't turned you off the fic. There's so little that comes after this that I'd hate for you to miss it. Though I suppose it is only a fic. :P); **myster** (I end chapters on a cliffhanger frequently. I mean, I gotta have some reason to keep you all coming back and complaining in reviews. .); **doctress** (morbidly fascinated can be a very good thing. I won't complain.); **derangedfangirl** (have I seen you over at Johnny's Angels? The name is familiar. Anyway, thanks for the review. You're one of the few who kept me on task in December – though all that meant was opening up the document and staring at it for a few hours before closing it without any work done…but it all paid off in the end. .); **Cayenne Pepper Powder** (holds out wrists to be slapped I'm sorry! You're absolutely right, I've been a slacker, and I promise not to do it ever again until 'Days' is completed. And though you didn't say that in your review, you did spur me on to feel horrible guilty and to finally talk to someone about the fic and get some help to get past my writer's block. So there. . I always love hearing from you.)


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Author's Note: **alright, didn't _quite_ get it done by the end of the month, but this was really close, right?

This was a _great_ chapter to write, lots and lots of fun, really, really long, and you're all going to hate me by the end and that's always a plus. ;)

Go, read, flame, preferably in that order. :P

Author's thanks at the end as always.

* * *

I hit the floor, the air _whooshing_ out of me as I landed half on top of the table. The glass top shattered into thousands of little pebbles that scraped at my palms but didn't break the skin. I extricated myself from the empty frame, watching both Sands and Price who each had a gun out and trained on each other. Where Sands was deadly calm, Price was smirking.

_Find cover._ I rose to a crouch and started to back away from the silent tableau before me. _ Be quiet, cause no distract– _

The lights went out a frenzied heartbeat before a wave of sound _woomphed_ through the room, the sound to low and intense to be heard but loud enough to make my heart stutter and send pain shooting through my ears. Almost simultaneously the east bank of windows wavered and exploded inwards. The north and south windows collapsed in a strange visual example of surround sound, followed by the west windows which spewed glass outward. A hellish orange light lit the room for the mere second it took for the destruction to happen, and then darkness ushered in hot air that was thick and soupy with the scent of burning chemicals. I'd dropped to the floor again with the first explosion, coving my head to protect it from any glass that might reach the middle of the room, but that protective huddle did nothing to block the scent of fire from reaching me. I gagged as I caught a whiff of what smelled like burning meat and clapped a trembling hand over my mouth. Whether it was to hold back a hysteric scream or the restlessness of my stomach, I'm not sure. All I knew was I had to get out; once again I forced fear-paralyzed muscles to support me in a low crouch.

"You bastard." All that icy cheerfulness was gone from Price's voice; rage and burning hate took its place, a perfect counterpoint to the screams that could now be heard outside. Against all odds, Sheldon's companions had managed to bring down his kingdom, leaving him more dangerous than ever. "You won't get everything."

"Lizzie?" Sheldon's query was cautious. When Price's eyes shot to me, the irises only visible because they reflected the fire outside, I understood that Sheldon hadn't wanted to draw any attention to me but had risked it to know where I was.

The answer was too far away.

I whispered his name, unable to look away from the eeriness of Price's eyes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sheldon shift his weight towards me, as if he were preparing to leap the four or five feet between us. That slight movement was what set Price off. I screamed as a small explosion of flame burst out of Price's gun, as I felt my hair move in a hot breeze that left a burning line of pain on my scalp.

"No!" Sheldon and I screamed at the same time as he leapt towards me and I saw him move. In that split second I'd somehow come to terms with the knowledge that my Jell-O-like limbs would never get me out of the building. But if _he_ could move then had to get out, had to somehow beat the odds once again and get back to Virginia, to our children. Then my shoulder seemed to explode, splattering hot liquid over the side of my face. In that moment as I screamed with pain that seemed to rival that of childbirth, my brief flash of nobility died. To hell with everything and everyone else; I _needed_ Sheldon.

I clung to him, not understanding as he demanded to know where I'd been shot, only speaking as he was ripped out of my hold and a painful hand ground my wound into the floor, eliciting another scream of pain as I instinctively arched to get away.

_"My only regret is that you can't watch her die."_

The words weaved in and out of my ears, lending a dreaminess to words of incredible violence. The words and the pain seemed totally disconnected to each other, Sheldon's gasping, placating words seemed to come from another room. I'd never dealt well with pain, only ever been able to hide it when my pride was at stake, but that wasn't an issue here. But even my whimpers and soft sobs didn't seem to be coming from me.

Somewhere another bomb went off, removing that terrible pressure from my chest. The pain drew back enough for my ears to capture more yelling, closer this time. Warm fingers brushed against mine and I tried to grip them but once again they disappeared.

* * *

They had known that a direct assault on Price's island kingdom would be too costly to them, never mind how impressive it would have looked. Price was no dummy; he would have planned around the premise that he'd be fending off angry agents. And angry people made stupid, glaring mistakes. Not that Price's _personal_ trained force wasn't capable of altering their tactics to fit the need, but those first moments of surprise should have been enough to see the agents' strategy through…_before_ Price got impatient and decided to blow this place sky high.

They knew about the auto-destruct system in place though Price thought it was still a secret known only to himself and the dead man who'd installed it. How they'd found out wasn't important; taking out the generators was. With no power, there'd be nothing running to intercept the command to not only destroy the building, but to level this island and its two closest neighbors.

Yet even when they had been clearly out-maneuvered, Price's men put up a good fight. From every approach, the rogue agents' progress slowed to a crawl. They tried to keep the battle quiet when they could, knowing that any noise would immediately draw reinforcements for their enemies. Considering one of their objectives was to blow up the barracks – with most of the guards still inside – there was a certain amount of desperation involved, not only to keep the silence but to keep their bombs from exploding prematurely. The weapons had been put together by experts, but even experts had to make do with what they could get their hands on at times. As a result the end products were…touchy.

The demolition expert who was carrying the bomb meant for the generator in a knapsack was sweating bullets. He was surrounded by five other agents carrying knives and guns equipped with silencers, but even they weren't enough protection as a sniper took the man out. Roberts, who'd joined the first unit he'd come across – which wasn't the one he'd been meant to join but in the mayhem he hadn't had much other choice – caught the knapsack before it could hit the ground along with its previous bearer and kill everyone in the immediate vicinity. The cowboy checked his watch and cursed. They had five minutes before the other team was – hopefully – within range to blow up the barracks. The attacks had to be carried out at the same time to produce their maximum effect.

"Hold them off!" he demanded before he scrambled down the near gully. The deep, swiftly flowing stream that powered Price's generator was hidden within the gully and further camouflaged by tall grass. Running along the narrow strip of mud that formed the bank while almost bent in half wasn't easy, but Roberts had no other choice even with the risk of falling into the water and ruining any chance they had of keeping Price of turning this place into a modern day Atlantis.

A body flew over his head, hitting the water with a splash that sent water five feet into the air. Since no one came to surface, Robbo didn't waste time worrying about a corpse, though it did put him in a kind of macabre race to the generator.

The metal walkway to the generator house was rusted and slick with water and algae, but again, Roberts didn't slow down. Though luck was with him when he found no guards anywhere near his objective, he had less than two minutes to set the bomb and get a safe distance away without getting killed by a fall from that damn unsafe walkway or an enemy.

The bomb was simple enough that though it'd been made by an expert, it could be set to detonate by an amateur. Roberts had always been fascinated by explosives, but even that line of work hadn't been reckless enough to suit him. Even though he could die at any moment, he had to admit that part of his was having the time of his life which was admittedly a good thing since his life expectancy was getting shorter by the moment.

_There!_ It was in place. Roberts raced back the way he'd come, scrambling up the nearly vertical stairway that led from the gully to the back of Price's main building. He met a few more of their team as he went, and to save his breath, he just grabbed them and forced them to run in the direction he was going. Putting the main building between them and the generator should be enough distance to at least ensure they didn't die from the explosion.

_Five…four…three…two…o– _

_ WOOOMPH!_

He couldn't even hear the second explosion over the ringing in his ears. _Damnit! I better not be deaf_, he thought as he let two other agents hoist him up to climb in a broken window. Sands should have Price neatly trapped on the top floor. With the power out, the elevators would be useless, leaving just two sets of stairs as an escape route. Well, there was that set of stairs that led up to the roof, but that wouldn't get Price far.

The agents split up, half taking the east stairs and half the north. Only the team who took the north stairs made it to the top floor. Roberts wasn't surprised; the east side of the building had taken the brunt of the explosion.

He and four other agents – when had Riley joined their little team? – burst into Price's office, flashlights on, guns at the ready, voices calling out and demanding information. Three dark figures were huddled together near the west windows. One bolted, taking the second with it as it leapt out the window.

They rushed forward en masse, no one even stopping to check on the still body. Six feet down there was a landing. In the darkness, it was hard to see but it looked as if both men were up and running.

"Lights!" Roberts demanded, thankful that he could hear his own voice in his ears rather than ringing hollowly in his head. That still didn't help them fix their aim. All they had was sound to follow, and since Sands was…

Their shots ricocheted off the metal grill steps. Once of the agents cursed as one of their bullets came back and clipped his arm right above his wrist. Roberts was just about to jump out the window and go after the fleeing men when Riley's voice broke through the turmoil. "Stop! One of them is ours! This isn't Sands."

The small team barely had enough time to absorb what had just happened before more people flooded the room, massive flashlights illuminating the room and revealing the body of a woman lying on the floor, her eyes dazed but shooting weak glares at the people in full body armor shouting, "Halt! CIA! You're all under arrest."

From above their heads came the sound of a helicopter starting up.

"Sheldon." As the room seemed to run in on her, Liz closed her eyes and let herself be buried.

* * *

He had tried. He was so incapable of letting anyone best him that he had actually tried. The moment I stood up and raised my weapon, Price had reached into his pocket and tried to blow us all into kingdom come. I know because I heard the click of the button, so high pitched over the sound of two bombs going off at the same time. The relays for the auto-destruct had barely been destroyed before they had a chance to get the signal. And he realized it. The moment the building did little more than tremble in the wake of the two explosions, he knew that somehow my emotionally – and at times physically – crippled colleagues had managed to outflank his guards.

I was surprised at that himself. As the minutes had slipped by and I'd heard and felt the evidence of just how prepared Price had been for this moment, I'd started making other plans. I'd started to be glad that I'd left that letter behind for Lizzie, though I wasn't sure how I was going to get her out of this so she would have a chance to read it. Now I just had to keep Price contained until backup could reach the upper floors. Of course, without knowing what kind of weaponry Price had at hand, I hadn't expected that to be an easy task.

"You bastard." The very fact that Price's curse wasn't all that severe was a warning. Whenever he was beyond pissed off, my former boss always found himself at a loss for words. It was a state I'd put him in often enough to recognize it even if I couldn't see his face. My mind inconveniently turned to Lizzie; Price was unpredictable in this temper, and he had nothing against killing women and children. "You won't get everything."

_Oohh…that's not good._ Those kind of threats – vague as they were – were usually all-inclusive. The "eliminate-your-entire-family-tree" kind of mad. The "hold-a-grudge-until-either-I-kill-every-member-of-your-family-or-see-the-fires-of-hell" kind of mad. The "slow-and-painful-you'll-be-begging-for-death," kind of mad.

"Lizzie?" I'd lost her position in the explosion. If she'd quietly and secretly tucked herself away somewhere and I didn't know, that could be deadly. Because I wouldn't know if Price had found her until it was too late. Because I could accidentally shoot her instead of the man in front of me. Where the hell was she?

The answer was too far away.

"Shel…" Her voice is so soft that I don't know if she whispered my whole name or just that little part, but it doesn't matter. I know where she is…or at least the general area. What with the gunfire and the yells drifting in the broken windows, her position got a little lost between her lips and my ear.

Uncertainty can't be admitted to, though. Knowing that any movement on my part will be seen as a direct challenge, I shift my foot so that I can place myself between Price and the general area I believe Liz to be in.

The shot comes almost before I can fully shift my weight. Braced for pain, I'm not at all prepared for the way my heart seizes as Lizzie screams.

"No!" I don't know which of us sounds more horrified, but at least I'm certain of where she is now. Despite the danger, I turn my back on Price and leap the few feet that separate me from Liz. This isn't her fight. It was my own stupidity that dragged her into this and made her a playing piece. And though it counters everything that's kept me alive in the past five years, I'm willing to risk my life for something other certain personal gain.

Another shot rings out as I stumble to my knees. Lizzie's blood-curdling scream informs me that Price's shot didn't miss its target…but I also find myself breathing easier. _No one_ could scream like that if they were seriously injured. And my darling wife has never had a high tolerance for pain. Her screams are actually almost reassuring. As is the strength in her arms as she clings to me.

"It's alright," I murmur as I try to get enough space between us so that I can search for her wounds. "Where does it hurt, Lizzie? It's kind of dark if you haven't noticed." The pebbled glass on the floor is making me knees ache as I kneel. We don't have time for this. Already I can hear Price striding across the floor. "Com'on, Lizzie, stop your caterwauling. We –"

One of the most unpleasant sounds in the world is the sound of your own bones creaking, cracking, or snapping. And Price put enough force in his kick that I hear at least two snaps out of my ribs. I try to gasp quietly – gasping not at all would be better because inflating my lungs that far is torture – so that I'm not completely oblivious to what's going on in the room. Even then, it's almost impossible to hear anything over Liz's sobs.

_Damn it, Lizzie! Shut up!_ Truly, I sympathize. Gunshot wounds are a bitch. But I swear on all that is holy that if she doesn't –

Her next scream is weaker, accompanied by the sound of thrashing bodies. He's hurting her.

"Leave her alone, Price."

"Why? Because you're the one I want?" he sneers. "You're the one that's hurting." Liz's whimpers increase in pitch. "My only regret is that you can't watch her die."

"Isn't that a little clichéd?" I cautiously roll to my feet. If my ribs really are broken, I'm courting a punctured lung.

"And you aren't? Is this where you offer yourself up in the role of a sacrificial lamb in her place? What is that if not clichéd?"

"You're the one setting the script."

Price's bark of laughter is harsh. "You make a piss poor hero, Sheldon. Even a tarnished one. We all know you're an arrogant prig. The only reason you want me to come after you instead of her is that you always think you can beat everyone at their own game. If out places were reversed, _you'd never_ use a man's wife as human collateral." His mocking voice tears my already weak conscience to shreds. "But then we both know that's a lie, isn't it? You talk a good game about originality, but you use every trick in the handbook if it'll get you what you want. And so does your lovely wife. We had a nice long talk before you showed up." Whatever he's doing, he hasn't stopped; Liz is still sobbing and trying to get away. "She might use you to get out of this, but that's all you're going to be worth once she's had a chance to really think. Who in their right mind would want a man like you in their life?"

Even though I'd figured that our few good days together were nothing more than an attempt to capture the past, Price's version of Liz's future decision _hurts._ It hurts because there is so much truth in his words. Even I know that Liz doesn't really deserve to be saddled with a man like me, I'd planned to be selfish and stay with her anyway. But there was no telling how many more men like Price were out there, men I'd stepped on or thrown off the ladder in my climb towards reaching my own ambitions. Men whose lives I'd sabotaged or destroyed in my race towards my own goals. Men who were as ruthless as I was and who wouldn't hesitate to take it out on my family if I seemed the least bit connected to them.

And I am still _just_ selfish enough to not want to be there if Liz or one of our children dies because of me. I'd much rather live in ignorance of their fate. Then only my dreams will haunt me with guilt.

I realize too late that he's gotten to me – to _me_, the master puppeteer. My paralysis is broken by the sound of the office doors bursting open, but _he_ heard them coming. He was ready.

I threw myself towards Lizzie, determined at least to protect her from whoever has joined us, but Price catches me under the arm just as my fingers brush against hers. Jerked off balance, stumbling to keep my feet under me, I step into air and plummet…

…just far enough to make the landing hurt. Damn. Even a little warning would have been enough to keep me from landing hard on my shoulder.

"I'm getting to old for this," I grumble as I take my time pushing myself upright. The voices inside the room are too chaotic, too far away for me to easily identify them. I know I can't get back in the window without help, but I need to know that Liz hasn't found herself stranded in an even worse situation.

My efforts to stall apparently aren't appreciated. Rough hands help me to my feet, but this time I'm ready for them and I struggle. For my efforts, Priceclips me in the back of the hand with the fist that was wrapped around his gun. That, along with the fall, is enough to leave me totally disoriented and easy to herd up the steps. The shots ricocheting off the steps aren't exactly encouraging, even though it does sound like friendly fire. In the darkness and the haze of smoke, I can only assume I'm unidentifiable.

"Where are we going?" The roof doesn't offer much except for another floor to fall from.

"You're going to disappear like you were originally meant to."

I hope that's code for "we're going to play hide-and-seek," but as I hear rotors start up, I doubt it.

* * *

Being informed that her injury was nothing more than a flesh wound did nothing to placate Liz's building irritation. The last time these people came bursting onto the scene, she'd gotten _kidnapped_. And now Sheldon was who knew where, possibly alive, possibly bleeding, possibly dead –

"Please stay still, Mrs. Sands."

"Why? According to you it's nothing but a scratch." One that hurt like hell, but she was too mad to care. Why were they all just standing around looking at the surrounding devastation? Why didn't any of them have answers for her? She wanted to know what was being done to locate her husband!

"Now, take it easy, Mrs. Shep."

No, not even Sheldon's friends were exempt from her wrath. "Why? You're taking it easy enough for both of us you overgrown cowboy," she muttered as she sent to the window they'd all been gathered at a few minutes ago. She glanced down and winced at the thought of her unseeing husband being forced into that jump. The landing wasn't even that wide. He could have easily fallen to his death.

Could still end up falling to his death.

Roberts silently came up behind her and took her by the shoulders, leading her unresisting body away from the window. He wondered if she even noticed how her hands were balling into fists over and over. Her temper would stave off the pain and exhaustion from the blood loss for the time being – because no matter what everyone was saying to reassure her, she had been very lucky that neither the wound on her head or on her shoulder were life threatening. No matter how upset she was, they still needed attention.

Liz didn't notice until she was sitting down again that she'd been maneuvered like a tin soldier. "Just leave me alone," she whispered, the fight draining out of her. Her strength kept coming and going, and in the moments it was gone it left her without a single defense against the "what-if's" that crowded her mind. Years of wishing that she could kill Sands for leaving her were coming back to bite her in the ass. Now all she wanted was to be in the same room with him. Even earlier when death seemed certain was better than this because he'd been there. She hadn't been so alone.

Roberts stood by helplessly as two tears and a sniffle escaped Liz as she sat silently and let the official agents put field fixes on her wounds.

"I want a report and I want it _now_." The words were spoken in a gravely, authoritative voice that wouldn't have been out of place in a battle-scared veteran but seemed just bizarre coming out of the five-foot-nothing fading beauty that stepped into the ruined office but no one ever made the mistake at poking fun at the woman. She was a force to be dealt with contained in a body that had caused its share of damage despite its size. Not to mention that her mind was wickedly sharp…only the most foolhardy agents dared contradict her. Only those with a mind to match got away unscathed, usually because they knew when the line had been drawn between an exchange of ideas and questioning subtly couched orders.

Being totally unaware of Company politics however, Liz leapt to her feet, her anger back so fully that it was as if it'd never been gone.

"You don't know what's going on? Why am I not surprised? None of you people seem to have any idea of what's going on and from what I can tell it's a chronic case of cluelessness!" She shrugged off the restraining hand on her shoulder. "First you people order your agents to lie to their spouses about their true jobs, you rip them away from their families without warning, demand that they have no contact with those families over years and years, then accuse those same people who have jumped through every hoop you've pointed at of treason – because that was the charge, wasn't it!? No one's come right out and said it, but why else would they be so desperate to clear their names? And then you fumble about in the dark, trying to catch people who are victims and not criminals, breaking into people's houses and ignoring constitutional rights with impunity all because your security is too loose to keep a hold on the people you've caught! You leave innocent children with people who don't know the first thing about child-raising, you sweep into situations you know nothing about and expect full cooperation without giving any in return, and you don't even care that a man's life is in danger right now! You prefer standing around with your pants around your ankles looking like bumbling idiots! And I'm sick of it! I want my family back!" Trembling with emotion, Liz stood still in the midst of ranks of shocked agents, meeting the woman's steely gaze with her own fevered one. Any moment she was going to break into tears if she didn't get the answers she wanted, and that just made her madder. "I thought you people were the Central _Intelligence_ Agency! If this is any example of your effectiveness, I can only assume that no one's actually interested in attacking the US because you people couldn't stop a five year old with an erector set!"

"Mrs. Sands, I presume," the older woman said dryly. When the hot edge of Liz's anger melted into confusion the woman explained, "Only Sands would marry a woman of such…definite opinions of US policies, ones that run against his own. I assume he gets off on arguing with you."

Whatever she'd expected, that wasn't it. Liz just stood there nearly slack-jawed. How had this woman known that Sheldon… Shaking her head, Liz folded her arms against her chest and tried to look as if she had some control over herself and the situation.

The woman came forward, the agent in charge of this mess following in her wake. "Inspector General Victoria Tymms," she introduced herself as she waited for Liz to shake her proffered hand.

Liz paled. She didn't know what an inspector general's job was, but it sounded important; sounded as if she probably had a great deal of say in Sands' fate should he be found. _Sheldon is going to kill me,_ she thought as she dazed took the offered hand. _After I get out of jail. I probably just broke a ton of laws. And even if I didn't, that doesn't mean a whole lot. This woman could probably order my disappearance and not lose a wink of sleep._

"Don't look at me like that," Tymms said sharply. "I don't bite. And I don't put my boot up civilian asses when they speak their minds."

"Yes ma'am," Liz said weakly. "It's just…been a very long night." The sun was tinting a thin strip of sky at the point where sky and water met. It was hard to believe that so much time had actually passed. "And I'm –"

"Worried for your husband." Tymms waved a hand as if that went without a saying and could be dismissed. "Barkley!" She didn't even look at the man as he came to attention so quickly it looked as if he'd had a needle poked in his butt. It was as if she expected his immediate attention as her due.

"Sir!"

"What's the status on finding agent Sands and Mr. Price?"

"We have three MH-60G Pave Hawks on an intercept course with orders to apprehend the agents and if that doesn't work, to search and destroy."

"Oh my god." Liz felt her knees give out as all the blood rushed from her head. It didn't matter that Roberts caught her before she hit the floor, that Tymms turned and started giving Barkley hell before immediately ordering him to contact the helicopters and countermand the destroy order. It didn't even matter that Liz heard the man get on the radio and give those orders. All she could think was, _It might already be too late._

xxx xxx xxx

The silence in the chopper was tense and absolute. Nothing could be heard other than the constant whirring of the rotors. Sands knew he'd been fading in and out of consciousness for some time now thanks to that little "love tap" Price had given him. Frankly, he was surprised that he was still alive. There was little point in carrying a prisoner now…unless Price had a particularly gruesome and lingering death in mind. And if that was the case, Sands didn't want to know.

Still…his mouth was so very hard to control.

"Don't tell me I'm going to be swimming with the fishes," he muttered, not knowing if anyone was even around to hear him. When he received no acknowledgement, he assumed Price had other things to worry about, things that would account for the tension in the air. Since it was unlikely that his questions would be answered or even that he'd have time to do anything with the information, Sands leaned his head back against the headrest and let his thoughts drift.

_ "CIA?" She'd been so furious. It had made her eyes sparkle and brought color to her cheeks, making her look so alive. So many arguments in the past had been sparked out of my boredom and desire to see her light up like that. Arguments I usually ended up apologizing for with long, sweet, hot kisses that made her forget that she'd been upset with me. She always forgot her anger with me too easily. If I had a chance to do things over again, I would have given her one of those kisses that night and spent my last night at home in her arms. _

_ "How long –" _

_ "I've told you this, Liz." But I'd known that a simple kiss wouldn't have worked, that she would have rejected my advances and I wasn't willing to have **that** be my last memory of her. Better to remember the roses in her cheeks._

_"They're sending you away?" How easy it would have been to let her anguish persuade me to stay. But I'd been young and had something to prove to myself. Or perhaps not so old. Thirty-three is barely youth, but that was the excuse I still use. But the responsibility to see my family happy chafed at me. I wanted one last adventure before I was bogged down in the every day minutiae of soccer practice and orthodontist's bills, had wanted one last fling for myself before I gave in to Liz's repeated requests for me to take a steady job so that she could focus on finishing her schooling. I was a coward. _

_"Yes. And no, I can't tell you where. It's for your own good. For the kids' own good." _

_"Bullshit,"_ _she'd growled at me, and her absolutely correct charge had goaded me into making guilty promises I knew I'd never be able to keep._

_ "It's not forever, Lizzie." It'd only be forever if I got myself killed. I refused to admit that the operation would likely take at least two years just to get things set up, perhaps more. _

_ "You don't know that. You already said you didn't know how long you'd been gone." _

_ Forever_, Sands reflected. She'd been right. The man she'd married would be baked and grow hard in Mexico's hot sun like a clay brick. He'd be turned into something there was no coming back from, that only violent force could shape from then on out.

_Or am I still being a coward?_ The past few days with Lizzie hadn't been so terrifying, but then again, she'd agreed to put aside her righteous anger at his abandonment. She was lonely and he was her husband; it wouldn't be so hard for her to rationalize to herself that it was alright to enjoy his company, to let him back into her bed. Why put energy into resisting from her husband what she needed from _someone_? She'd made it easy for him to let his guard down and try to be a more accommodating man. He had no hope that things would be so easy once he was truly back home. Winning back the full acceptance – he didn't dare hope for forgiveness – of his children would take years of constant work. But what else would he be good for? He couldn't deceive himself into believing that he'd be any help around the house. Liz would be saddled with two children and an invalid, one whose only talents lay in driving her insane and sating her physical needs. He'd be a kept man, and that was something his pride wouldn't let him accept. No matter how much Liz begged him to come home, it'd only be a half life for him.

Half was something he never settled for.

Of course, this was all purely for argument's sake since he was never going to have a chance to act on any of this. He was going to die sometime in the near future whether that was Price's intention or not. Sands no longer had any illusions about how long he could hold out against torture. Having his eyes drilled out had taught him that. And he wasn't about to beg for his life again. Once was more than enough.

If he knew where the door was, he'd take a very big step right now –

"Take evasive action, damn you!" Price's voice rang out in cheated anger.

Sands grabbed at anything he could find as the helicopter tilted suddenly and seemingly uncontrollably to the right. _We must have company. Or is that Company?_ He didn't know how the CIA would have found them, but out of everyone else that could upset Price, that was the best bet.

_If that was who'd scared Price off, then Liz is getting medical attention._ A fear he hadn't known he had eased. Now he just had his own life to worry about. And even that was starting to look brighter. Perhaps he wouldn't take a short walk after all. _After all, things are just getting interesting again._

Another sharp turn sent Sands jerking to the left. This time the helicopter didn't stabilize; it wobbled and shuddered and dropped a few feet in a way guaranteed to induce nausea in the strongest stomach.

"Are you _trying_ to get us all killed!" Price's scream was hoarse. "Give me that!"

A wild burst of wind tore at Sands' hair, whipping it around his face. _Damn, he pushed the pilot out. _

Their flight suddenly became a series of uncontrolled falls, rolls, and climbs. The cold wind that tore at everything that wasn't part of a greater whole – including Sands' sunglasses – made it hard to breathe. Perhaps it'd be safer to take that walk after all if Price was out of his mind.

Just then the shock of one large object hitting another rippled through the aircraft. There was a scream that was lost in a blast of air and the earsplitting screech of rending metal as the front of the helicopter was torn from the body. Over his own bellow of pain as shrapnel embedded itself in his scalp and shoulders, Sands heard the sickly _wet_ sound of a tomato going through a fan that could only mean one thing. Not that he had time to savor his enemy's death, not when he was strapped into a seat in the broken, plummeting shell of a helicopter, with no idea how to free himself, and no idea if he was going to crash into land or rock-hard water.

The impact of aircraft against water knocked the air from Sands' lungs. If not for the ergonomically correct headrest, it probably would have broken his neck. As it was, he wasted precious seconds in dumb shock, marveling at the fact that he _wasn't_ dead. Fluid rushing into his lungs as he tried to get his protesting body to work again knocked him out of his stupor, and he started to struggle with the seatbelt while he also fought the desperate urge to cough.

The belt came free in those critical seconds when his muscles started to burn with hunger. He had another twenty seconds at the most to find the surface or he was going to go under…literally and figuratively. Except with his lungs filled with water he wasn't going to start automatically rising to the surface and he couldn't exactly look around to see the surface.

_Being blind instead of stupid **is** going to be what gets me killed… _It was his last clear thought as oxygen deprivation set in.

_Lizzie_…

* * *

**HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY!** Or not. I suppose y'all are going to have to wait a few weeks to find out. After all, yes I am that evil, but yes, I do love Sands that much. Quite a dilemma, eh? ;) 

**Author's Thanks **go out to…**Mayorst** (come on, the slipper thing was absolutely genius. looks proud Or at least, it was my favorite part. I had to get that arm in somehow. The chess part was difficult, I had to find a site that outlined different strategies play by play.); **doctress** (if you can't believe I left it off there, then you're probably dying now. Ahh…the perks of being the writer. .); **Dawnie-7** (yeah, I'm afraid Price doesn't have much of an imagination, and he's not exactly seeing Liz at her best.); **Rogue-Pirate** (really? I thought that last chapter was a little dry. It was certainly hard to write though, so maybe that's why I feel that way. And Sands was in character? That's always great to hear. It's hard to keep track sometimes.); **quick29** (I am back, and this time I'm back with a vengeance…and running away from all the angry reviewers with torches and pitchforks.); **desperado1102** (I love your reviews, they're so long. ;) You liked the part about Masden's tombstone colored eyes? I was afraid it might be a little trite. Glad it wasn't. Hmm…I'm glad you put that part about fallen queens in your review…I can build off that…maybe…makes note); **Enesvy** (from start to finish? Really? I gotta do that one of these days. I've been writing this for over two years and I've kinda forgotten the beginning. As for the end, it's racing down upon us I'm afraid.); **misc** (when have you known me to stop any place that's _not_ a cliffhanger? It's like my trademark.); **Lynx** (men, I agree. As for balance, we _all_ know Sands is all about balance. ;) And Sands' plans are always crazy. Sands always needed that soft heart of Liz's. A woman without one never could have put up with him. And this chapter was out in much less than three months.); **Merrie** (if you thought that last chapter was excellent, I wonder what word you're going to use for this one. :D As for your going away, that happened, unfortunately…and again I posted…this is almost a depressing trend.)

**Note the Second:** as far as I know, the next chapter is the last one, and I'll try to have it out by the end of April at the latest.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Author's Note:** hello? voice rings I'm sorry! I have no excuses that don't start in June…by which time I really should have had this finished. All I can say is that I was working out some fatal characterization flaws and it took re-plotting the entire chapter and deleting a great deal of what I already had in order to write something that clicked for all involved.

I hope this was worth the wait.

The **_epilogue_** is pending, and should be following soon (as in a week…at the most…this time I cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye promise).

Enjoy.

* * *

"Where is he?" I have made that demand so many times that it should be entirely rote by now, but somehow I've sustained my panic. They can keep telling me that Sheldon is all right, but until I see him, and touch him, then for all I know what they're telling me is a load of bull. 

They won't even tell me how he was recovered. That's the word they use too – as if "saved" or "rescued" denotes an emotional attachment that is simply too emasculating to be borne.

Well, _I_ have an emotional attachment, damnit, and if I hear one more person tell me to calm down or be patient, I'm going to –

"Have some coffee. You look like death warmed over."

I admit it. I'm not proud of it, but I'll cop up.

I burst into tears.

No sympathy was forthcoming. Tymms was a tough old lady, and while she probably understood the tears she probably thought there was a better time and place to let them loose.

"Take a hike you two – get some sleep." With decisive nods, she scattered my personal honor guard. While I didn't know them well, Roberts and Riley were friends of Sheldon's and that was comforting. And despite her grandmotherly appearance, Tymms was more like someone's ancient, ass-chewing drill-sergeant.

Not so comforting.

"Buck up, Sands."

The shock of being called by my husband's name within this enclave did what all the comforting words couldn't have; my eyes dry up and I look at her wordlessly.

"He's resting comfortably." A snort accompanied that statement. "It'd be hard not to on that many painkillers."

"Sheldon's alright?" He was fine? That was what they'd been guarding like State secrets? Did everything around here have to be so dramatic?

"Now, I didn't say that."

_Resting comfortably._ "Oh god, he's dying, isn't he?"

"What?" Tymms looked utterly flummoxed. "No, where…?" She gave me a hard look before saying in the kind of tone you'd use on unruly grandchildren, "As Price's helicopter was fleeing, it was intercepted by three of our helicopters. There was a midair collision that sent one of ours down along with Price's. Our men had parachutes. From our best guess, Price was killed in the collision. Sands, who was further back in the helicopter, caught shrapnel in his shoulders, neck, and skull, but not enough to cause permanent damage. Most of his injuries are a result of the aircraft hitting the water and the following explosion from the wreckage that forced him up to the surface where he was seen by our two remaining helicopters who were already on search and rescue for the crew of our downed aircraft."

I listen to this story, not believe a word of it. Things like that just don't happen in the real world. Men do not survive helicopter accidents, near drowning, and fiery explosions; this isn't the movies.

Mere disbelief has no effect on truth, though. Tymms steadily meets my eyes the entire time she explains what happened, waiting for some kind of reaction from me. But after this week of shocks – has it only been a week, or perhaps a little more? – I'm wrung out. I'm tired and achy and father away from home in every way possible than I was when I first arrived in Florida – just last night! – with Sheldon's hand in mine.

Since no questions were forthcoming from me, the old lady continued. "The doctors will be able to brief you on the totality of his injuries."

"But when can I see him?" I didn't need a doctor or anyone else around to coddle me, if that's what they were worried about. I'm not the biggest fan of blood, but I've always been able to hold it together when one of loved ones is hurt. And I wasn't there when Sheldon was in the hospital last time. Being here again was probably going to raise some bad memories.

Besides, until I saw him, I couldn't convince myself that he was truly alright.

"Mrs. Sands?"

"That's me!" I shot to my feet, forgetting I'd lost a bit of blood and hadn't eaten in about twenty hours. I swayed on my feet but gritted my teeth and stayed upright. "That's me. Where's my husband? How is he?"

* * *

"You're a lucky man," they kept telling him. "You shouldn't be alive." As if that made him feel any better. As if that made the pain worthwhile. Sure, he felt like crap, "but at least he could feel." 

What a load of bull. The only reason they said those things was because it comforted _them_. At least the doctors were more circumspect than his colleagues. The doctors were pleasantly pessimistic, and they said things like "undetected blood clots" and "possible internal hemorrhaging."

He wished he had a cigarette and a gun. He could do anything as long as he had –

"Sheldon?" The man on the bed didn't respond to the creaking of his door as Liz pushed her way into his room. She hesitated for a moment, unsure if she should intrude. _I'm his wife. It's perfectly acceptable for me to be here._ Even more importantly, she _wanted_ to be here. She wanted to sit by his bed and hold his hand and hear him say that everything would be alright. She wanted to tell him how much she'd longed for him to come home. He might be thinking that now that things were settled down, she'd ask for that divorce again. _I don't. I never wanted it. I wanted him and here he is. We can make it work._

"You're not a mouse you know." Sands knew his words were slurred from the painkillers but the chance to verbally poke and prod at someone was too good to pass up. Even if that person was his wife. After all, if anyone was going to understand why he was doing it, it'd be her.

"You're awake."

"Am I? Couldn't tell. It's a little dark."

That was so, so _normal_ coming from him that she let her caution slide as she moved across the room and pulled a chair up to the bedside. As much as she wanted to hold his hands, she couldn't because they were both covered; one in plaster and one in rubber tubing and tape. His face – what parts of it that wasn't covered by the gauze wrapped around his eyes – was a black and blue mess, so she couldn't stroke his jaw and didn't feel as if she could kiss the scrapes. In fact, there didn't seem to be an inch of him that _wasn't_ covered in bruises. Still, she slid her hand over the skin of his arm between his cast and the hem of his hospital gown. "Hey, baby," she whispered, glad that he couldn't see the sheen of tears in her eyes.

"Baby," he muttered under his breath. "They lied, didn't they?"

"What? Who lied?"

"The doctors. I'm dying, aren't I?" She laughed, and it didn't matter that he couldn't see the tears – he could hear them. "Oh. I see. _You're_ the one that's dying."

Liz could see that he was trying to joke, but he'd turned pale under his bruises. "No, no, I'm fine."

"Then knock it off with the 'baby' business," he growled, irritated that his heart was bouncing uncomfortably in his chest. Damnit, he'd nearly had a heart attack earlier. More than one heart attack. He never wanted to relive the shock he'd felt when Liz had been thrown into his lap. Despite the fact that he hadn't seen it, the image of Price holding a gun to her head would likely make him wake up in cold sweats for months to come. He'd spent the last five years playing the game as if he were the only piece at risk. To find out that he'd been laboring under a false impression was enough to chill his blood…

…and she was calling him _baby._

"Sheldon? What's wrong?" When he tried to shrug her away, Liz pulled her hands back. "You're mad."

"Oh, so _that_ you notice."

"You're mad at _me?_" She pulled her hands back and clenched them in her lap. "I know that I should have fought more –"

"No!" Sands growled in frustration. Not only could he not roll his eyes or shoot her a glare that would turn her into a pile of ash, now he couldn't even run his hands through his hair. _Though if I could, I'd probably be ripping it out._ "Don't be an idiot, Liz. God, you used to be such an intelligent woman. Now you're apologizing for not fighting against people who would have subdued you without caring how much damage they caused. If they'd had to break your jaw to make you shut up, they would have."

"But…my presence there hobbled you. You know it did. If I hadn't been there, Price wouldn't have taken you. You wouldn't be in pain now. That's _my_ fault." She fisted her hands so tightly to keep them from trembling that she could feel her nails biting into her palms. "But I want to make it up to you. Come home with me. Well, not _with_ me. You need to stay here awhile, and I need to get home to Chris and Mandy." She could tell this wasn't going well. His face was getting tighter and tighter with displeasure. That intractable look never boded well; it was never easy to change his mind once he set his jaw like that. She needed to change his mind _now_. "Once you're out, come home. It's time you came home. You've been gone too long. _Please_." _We can make this work. Just come home._

He was silent for a long time. The desperation in her voice had been impossible to miss, and he hated it. He hated that she was certain he'd turn down anything she offered to him, _really_ hated that she felt as if she _had_ to offer him something in order to earn forgiveness for something she never could have prevented.

"Lizzie, have I ever beaten you?"

"What?" His question threw her. She couldn't see how that had anything to do with what they were talking about.

"Have I ever beaten you?" he repeated himself, terrible patience in his voice.

"No."

"If you're not a battered wife then stop taking the blame for something you had no control over."

"But I thought –"

"That everything would go back to normal just because we jumped in the sack?" He knew that wasn't what she'd thought, but she was being deliberately dense. He wasn't an invalid. He wasn't going to let her drag him home like a stray dog. Yes, fine, they still wanted to jump each others' bones. Lust did not an obligation make. If she really wanted him to come home, then he was going to make damn sure that she examined her reasons for wanting him there. If he had to rip her excuses and illusions away to make her _examine_ those reasons… Well, it was a dirty job but there was no one better suited to it. "I thought you understood that I thought I was going to die."

Liz actually felt the impact his words had on her. It felt as if the chair moved under her. "You must be in pain," she murmured, looking for some excuse for him.

"Oh, so I don't know my own mind if I'm in pain." His lips twisted into a sneer that had her out of her chair and on her feet as she paced. He heard her agitated footsteps and shook his head. She'd always fought against things that upset her. Maybe he should consider himself lucky that she thought _he_ was worth getting upset over. Maybe he should just give in and let her plan the next few months of his life and then try to have this conversation once they were both on equal footing.

Or maybe he knew better than to avoid facing things head on. It was a lesson he'd paid dearly for, and if he had to make her learn from his experience, then he had no qualms about taking off the gloves and getting dirty. If Lizzie was half the woman he thought she was, then she'd see through him in a few weeks and would come charging back to give him hell.

"You wouldn't be saying these things if you weren't on the painkillers." Her voice was dark with hurt and irritation, her words directed just as much at herself as they were at him.

"This has nothing to do with lowered inhibitions, sweetness," he drawled. "I know _exactly _what I'm saying. I'm not sure why _you're_ so surprised though. You've known that I'm a bastard for years now." that I'm a bastard for years now." that I'm a bastard for  
"So what?" she challenged. "All that talk about coming back to us after this was all over was just a way to get into my pants? More pretty lies like the ones you told before you left?"

"You're catching on. Perhaps the peroxide didn't sink so deep after all."

"Stop it, Sheldon!" Liz spun around on her heel and stalked back to the bed. Gurney. Whatever the right word was. "In the last week I have regained a missing husband, been kidnapped, cursed at, thrust into a situation that was clearly out of my depth, made up with _you_, and been kidnapped _again_. I've been bruised, shot, coddled, ignored, used –"

"A-ha!" Sands pointed a finger in the general direction of his wife. _"Used. _It's an ugly word, isn't it? Makes one feel so very dirty…if you're on the wrong side of it. I for one feel fine. You're obviously in denial. I can't imagine why else you'd want to take home the man who _kidnapped_ you, _cursed_ at you, _bruised_ you, and _used_ you."

Silence. Absolute, utter silence. Only the sound of the machines monitoring Sands' condition showed that anyone in the room was still alive. Liz let the silence stand as she argued with herself. Painkillers, no matter what her husband claimed, _did_ lower inhibitions. What he was _saying_ didn't bother her…not as much as what inspired his words. If _this_ was what he said once his guard was down, if she got this veiled contempt instead of uncomfortable words of love…

This was the truth then? This was what the man she'd married had become? Nothing more than manipulative, heartless brute?

Sands was the one to let the tension in the air get to him, he was the one to break the silence.

"Go home, Liz. There's nothing for you here." _There's a great deal more that depends on you than depends on me._

Liz nodded dumbly, but didn't move. Her mind was scattered and it felt as if there was something she needed to do before she left but she couldn't imagine what it was. _What do I do? What do I do now?_ "I'll, uh…" Her heart was a hard lump in her chest and felt as if were out of place. She pressed her fist against it as if by pressing she could force it to behave normally. "I'll tell my lawyers to expect a call from yours then." _Let him continue the divorce proceedings. Yes. If that's what he wants, I won't fight him._ "Goodbye, Sands."

As she left, he wondered if she'd noticed that she'd expressed her disapproval by calling him by his last name.

* * *

The door was slow to swing closed and before it had, the sound of a hand slapping against wood signaled someone else's entrance. The thought that it might be Lizzie coming back to give me hell… No, it's too soon for that. Even if it is her, it's too soon. She hasn't had time to think yet. So who is this dimbulb? 

"What is this? Did they install a revolving door?" The exasperation in my voice would have been enough to throw off anyone who wasn't a fool, but the sound of limping steps only got closer to the bed. The limp threw me off at first, but the sound of wooden heels on linoleum helped identify my latest guest. "You'd damn well better be coming in to report, Robbo." God help him if he wanted to talk about the sight Lizzie must have made as she stormed out. It wouldn't matter that I didn't have a gun; I'd still find a way to shoot the sorry bastard.

"Report? When did you get promoted?"

"It's not so much that I got promoted as much as it is that I lost my eyes."

"Hmm…someone's in a bad mood. You'd better tell the doctors that the painkillers aren't doing much for you because, really, the best part about getting shot is getting drugged up afterwards. You should be so well oiled that it'd take finding out that Price is still alive to make you snarl."

Panic. Instant panic. _"What!"_ Price was still _alive?_ And I just sent Liz out into the cold cruel world where he was waiting?

"Whoa, Shep. What the hell do you think you're doing?" I struggle against the hands lightly pinning me to my cot.

"You'd better not have let her leave," I pant as I struggle. "How could you let her leave if he's out there still."

"Sands. _Sands_." I can hear Robbo muttering under his breath, but as they're not the reassurances I want, I ignore them. Damnit, if Liz got herself killed because she was too angry with me to be smart, then I'll –

"Calm down. Good god, man. They really do need to dose you with some stronger shit. It was a joke. A _joke._"

My muscles freeze painfully as my brain processes this new information. A joke. Robbo thought it was funny to joke about my wife being loose on the same streets as a maniac with a very large ax to grind. "Damn you to hell," I gasp as panic releases its grip on my heart. "Damnit, Robbo." _Ouch._ The blood now flowing freely through my body is making my head pound. "That wasn't funny."

"I can tell," the other man says slowly as he awkwardly pats my shoulders. The image of an uncomfortable man patting the head of an unfriendly dog in an attempt to try to convince it to stay put pops into my head. Maybe that's why I feel like baring my teeth in a growl before biting him.

"Down, Cujo," I mutter under my breath as Roberts moves away. I hear him settling in the chair that Lizzie had so briefly occupied.

"Feeling the need to rip out someone's throat or have you just confused the hospital food with Snausages?" Roberts' voice is stronger now; he's obviously recovering from my little freak out.

"Can you really blame me?" I ask, taking the way out he's provided me. "I mean, after all I did to make sure Price was as dead as a doornail –"

"I heard he died in a helicopter accident," Robbo interrupted dryly. I ignore him.

" – you come in and tell me he didn't die. Now, I ask you, what kind of practical joke is that to pull on your friend and fellow agent? I don't suppose you have a cigarette I could bum."

"I'm not sure that would be a good idea. Your roommate is on oxygen."

"He's also in a coma. I don't think he's going to tattle."

"You've survived two explosions today. Since the third time is a charm, let's not press our luck."

"Two explosions? Is there something you and the oh-so-helpful doctors have neglected to tell me?"

"You mean you missed the second?" Robbo snorted. "I wouldn't have guessed it, but does that mean the little missus blows her top like that regularly?"

"Drop it," I say softly but firmly. There's no hint of a growl in my voice to indicate anything other than absolute seriousness. I just ripped out my wife's heart in order to force her to think with her head. That's _not_ something I want to discuss with my bachelor buddy.

For once Roberts reads me and lets the subject slide. "Do you want an account of the evening's pandemonium or should I let you get some shut-eye?"

"Talk." I need the distraction from _my_ heart.

* * *

When Liz had gone to pick up her children – a full cadre of CIA agents in tow with her hating each one of them on account of Sands – she'd been cold and hard to them. She'd had a chip on her shoulder and hadn't cared who knew. That's what Sands had wasted so much breath driving home – that she had as much right to be pissy and arrogant as his fellow renegades did. If that was what it took for others to take her seriously, then Liz even manage to don a thorny exterior that would have put her husband to shame. 

All that stiff reserve crumbled the moment she saw her children coming down the hall towards her and it had been a hard battle regain any of her composure at all. But Mandy had already been crying, and Chris had had this male "please save me" look in his eye, so Liz had made the effort to toughen up. In the past week she'd mistakenly used her husband as a source of comfort, and though it'd been false, it had been enough at the time. So even if she was not whole herself, Liz knew she had to offer the comfort they would be seeking…because it would be enough for them.

That had been hours ago. Hours that had been filled with all sorts of stress and boredom and paperwork and feelings running dangerously close to the surface, but the whole ordeal was over. They were home. They sat huddled on the living room sofa while a movie played softly in the background, through none of them watched it. Mandy was asleep, Chris had his eyes closed though Liz could tell he wasn't actually sleeping, and as for Liz, she watched her two children as if they were the only things she had left in the world; they _were_ all she had left. All that mattered, anyway. In her bitterness she didn't notice that her arms tightened slightly around her children. Mandy willingly snuggled closer, but Chris pulled away.

Liz tucked away her hurt only because she knew it would upset her son, not out of any sense of fairness to Sands. If there had been a way for her to vent all the frustration and confusion inside her that wouldn't harm her kids, she would have reached for it like an alcoholic reaches for a drink after a long day. Still, as Chris turned to face her, she kept her mouth shut as she struggled to get herself under control.

"You should start dating," he said without preamble, though there was a frown on his face.

"I should, hmm?" Liz asked. What was the cause of this sudden outburst?

"Yeah."

"Why's that?"

"You're lonely."

Liz could see how uncomfortable her son was getting with this subject, so she said lightly, "What I am is very glad to be home and very sick of having to deal with men. What do think about that?"

"Do I have to go to school tomorrow?"

She laughed in surprise, not sure where that had come from but not surprised the question had been asked. _He sounds just like his father, trying to get what he wants out of a situation. I say I'm glad to be home and he wants to know how long he can stay home too._ "No, you don't have to go to school. You can stay home and help me clean." It was a sign of how much he'd missed her that Chris didn't argue with her.

"Go to bed, Chris," she murmured, pressing a kiss onto his forehead. "I'll get Mandy."

Certain that her children were safely tucked away in bed, Liz went back downstairs and cleaned up the remains of their fast-food dinner before wandering through the bottom floor turning off lights and checking the locks. She had a brand new front door – one, she noted sourly, that wasn't nearly as sturdy as the one that'd been kicked in by those men in black. It was hard to believe that her nightmare had ever even happened, considering all the damage had been taken care of.

Well, perhaps not _all_ the damage. She stood in front of the door, remembering her shock when she'd opened it to find Sands standing on the other side. God, how she hated to admit how her heart had jumped, hated to remember how she'd been crushed when all he'd had to say was "the taxi driver needs to be paid." Liz reached out, turned the lock with an angry snap, and walked away. Sands had made it very clear then that he'd come here because he'd had nowhere else to go. He'd also made it very clear that he wouldn't be coming back.

The stairs seemed steeper than they'd used to be as she climbed them. It had been a long day…a long week. It always came back to that. And now that she was home? She didn't feel as if she belonged any longer; she didn't feel _safe_ in her home any longer. Everything that had made her feel safe in the past – her home, her locks, her husband, armed guards – had all failed her, one after another. "Damn you, Sheldon," she whispered under her breath as she leaned against the banister; those three words were all it took to have her near tears again. "Why did you ever come home? Why did you have to take everything away from me?" Was it just because misery _did_ love company?

Liz lifted her head and stared at the wedding picture she'd stubbornly kept hanging on the wall. It looked so very _ordinary_, placed as it was between baby pictures and grade school portraits of her children. The frame held a sunny scene; she was staring at the camera and smiling. Their wedding had happened very quickly once they'd found out about the pregnancy and it was a faintly uncertain smile she had on her face as she leaned against her new husband. One hand laid over the fabric that hadn't quite yet started to stretch with the new life beneath it. And Sands…he was smiling but looked a bit preoccupied. Once upon a time she'd thought it was cute, the portrait of a man and a woman joining together to face an uncertain future.

Now all she could see were those small warnings of life to come.

Almost hating herself for what she was about to do as much as she suddenly hated that picture, Liz reached out and took the frame off the wall. For a moment she looked at those distracted brown eyes, then she drew her hand back and threw the picture down the stairs. The sound of breaking glass gave her a sense of grim satisfaction.

_Take that._

The satisfaction melted away as she realized she was going to have to clean up the glass before her children went downstairs in the morning.

_I'm such an idiot. _

Liz wearily completed her climb and stopped in the doorway of her room. The light coming in from the bathroom revealed that she was going to have to fight for a pillow because her children had migrated to her bed. _How did an idiot become so blessed?_ Her last thought as she changed into pajamas and climbed into bed between the sleeping bodies of her children was, _Perhaps my life isn't ruined after all._

* * *

She hasn't called. I'd been so certain that she would have called to chew me out long before now. My earlier attack had been designed to make her stop and think, not to rout her entirely. _And I'm the one that's supposedly an expert at figuring out what makes people tick._ The possibility that I could be so out of touch with Lizzie and the life she's been leading that I could have crushed her without trying was…uncomfortable. 

I know my way around the small apartment well enough by now to confidently make my way to the kitchen without my cane. Of course, that's no huge accomplishment considering the size of the place. The apartment is government owned, and as per usual, nearly all expenses were spared. One small round table with two chairs for meals. One working kitchenette that hasn't seen much use since I took up residence. One couch. One fifteen inch TV…good for listening to the news since there's not a radio in the place. One bed. One coffin-like shower.

You know exactly where you are on the food chain if you're forced to stay in one of these places. Still, the slight independence is better than remaining in the hospital. If one more nurse had asked, "And how are we today," I would have shot someone. There were no "_we's_." Just "me" and "them" and "_her_."

_Damn, you sound like a woman, bitching about the one that didn't call._ Disgusted with myself, I grab a beer from the fridge and slam the door. I'd go for a walk or hit the gym – hey, let's be optimistic and throw in the shooting range too – if I thought that my ribs would stop being such pansies and not start aching halfway down the block.

The distinct _-click-_ of a lock turning and the rattling of a doorknob garnered my instant attention. Whoever's out there isn't having much luck getting in. That rules out my visitor being a medical practitioner of some kind – _they_ have an annoying talent for getting in anywhere where they aren't wanted. _ Oh, this ought to be good._ With any luck it's lawyer or someone equally lame-brained whose delicate sensibilities I can screw with. Though I don't know any lawyers who go so far as breaking and entering to talk to a "client."

Damn hearings. They've brought out the political monkeys en masse.

However, they've also called Lizzie to Washington, though I doubt that she'll take the time to see me. It's less than a ten mile commute from Bethesda to DC. If she'd wanted to see me, she could have gotten over here on her lunch hour and only been a few minutes late getting back to work.

The door opened…

…and closed. Those were the only sounds to be heard. _Either someone's decided not to come in, or the whoever has and is well aware of how good my hearing is._ And if that's the case, there's the distinct possibility my life is in danger. Though considering how dull things have been lately, an attempt on my life would be entertaining at the least. At the most it'll ensure I'm never bored again.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed over my chest as I wait. Whoever it is obviously doesn't have a gun since they had a clear shot from the doorway. I like assuming that there _is_ someone in the room; it makes life more exciting.

_Come on, do something… You're starting to waste my time…_ Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps whoever had been at the door had been some kid looking for some quick way to make cash to support his habit and when they saw there was someone in the room, they took off. _What's that? _

The faint scent of a familiar perfume and the slight breeze caused by an object in motion are the only warnings I get before pain blooms on my cheek.

"Lizzie." I know there's a self-satisfied smirk on my face and that it's sure to irritate her, but I can't help myself.

I. Was. Right. About everything.

A second slap stirs me out of my triumphant complacency. I reach out to grab her – the first slap was probably deserved, the second is pushing my limits – but my hands close on empty air.

"Impressive."_ She's around here somewhere._ "_You've_ learned a thing or two."

No answer. If she's waiting for me to start groping for her like an old man looking for his dentures in a dark room then she's going to be disappointed. Pride and anger are all that's gotten me through the months since November. I can keep the anger to myself, but I'll be damned if I let her take my pride.

"I knew you'd come back, though you're not nearly as mad as I'd thought you'd be. You're pulling your hits at the last moment. What's wrong? Can't quite bear to hit a man with glasses?" Nothing. "Alright, so you don't want to talk about that. Then how about this one: How're the kids?"

Yes, I was trying to goad her. Yes, I was expecting another attack. But I thought I'd be blocking a slap, not absorbing a full body check. My ribs complain loudly that they don't appreciate being slammed into the wall by the feminine body now pressed up against mine. The rest of my body fully approves. Liz has always held too much fascination for me, even now when her normally sweet lips are likely leaving marks that will be embarrassing to explain tomorrow. This wasn't a situation I'd even considered might unfold.

For once, being blindsided has delightful consequences.

* * *

She'd been forceful, Sands ruminated with no small amount of satisfaction as he sat on the floor. Liz was nearby, still breathing heavily. That sign of exertion was just about the only sound she'd made the entire time. 

"Hell of a way to show how pissed you are, Lizzie. If you just wanted a little afternoon delight –"

"Shut the hell up, Sheldon."

Liz spoke evenly. She wasn't mad. She hadn't been upset when she'd showed up here. There'd been no anger involved when she'd slapped him. That had been about standing up for herself. Sands had known exactly what he'd been saying to her that day in the hospital. His cruelty had been a weapon, one he'd used to defend himself against her and all she'd been offering. His sharp words had been intended to make her think about what she'd be accepting into her home.

But he could have found a better way to do it. He hadn't had to flay her already tender emotions. And though she wasn't mad – at the moment – she _was_ going to inform him of a few things here and now.

"Shut up and listen to me, because I'm only going to say this once." Liz paused as she straightened her clothing, giving him every opportunity to do as he pleased. But he didn't move and he didn't open his mouth though there was a confused, irritated look on his face. Relatively certain that he was going to listen to her, Liz continued somewhat heartlessly.

"_I_…don't need you. I'm sure you're delighted to hear that since that's what your little tirade at the hospital was designed to make me see. I am perfectly capable of having a meaningful, fulfilling, _happy_ life without you. In a lot of ways my life would be easier if you stayed as far away from me as you can get. I can't remember a time in my life where I've been through more ups and downs and doubts and fears and moments of pure hate. Even dating you and seeing you make eyes at other women –"

"Now _there's_ something you're never going to have to worry about again," Sands muttered, earning a kick from his bride.

"I said, _shut…up._" The words were emphatic, but not angry. "You _deliberately_ put me through hell…and you know what? I survived it. Maybe I didn't like it, but I'm still around to get mad about it if I want to.

"I know you'll say I'm being deliberately blind and there's only room for one blind person per family, but actually I see quite a bit more than you think. Price couldn't keep his mouth shut when he was waiting for you to come after him. I know about your… about your affair with that Mexican agent. I know about the guilty-as-sin people who died, and I know about the innocents who suffered because of your actions. And I know that _you_ had to know about them because you're not a stupid man, Sheldon.

"Let me tell you, I've spent a lot of sleepless nights trying to decide how I feel about what you did in Mexico. I don't have an answer. I probably won't. Ever. So there's another reason my life would be easier if I turned my back on you. But do you want to know what I decided?"

"Why do I think you're going to tell me no matter what?"

"Like I said, you're not a stupid man. Here's what I decided – I married you for better and worse, and I will _not_ be the one to walk away. I _want_ a husband. I want the husband I have _now_, not the one I had five years ago. And not just because the sex happens to be good. I hold no illusions that _anything_ about this will be easy. Chris will be mad, and the two of you will fight, and you'll likely be frustrated and short tempered and deprecating for as long as you're on medical leave, and you and I will fight, and you and Chris will fight, and he and I will fight, and all the fighting will make Mandy miserable… And you'll have to learn how to be a father all over again, and a husband, and I'll have to work on being a wife and not nag you to go to your therapy appointments – which I hear you've been blowing off, by the way – and something tells me I'll have to endure the occasional visit from Roberts who seems to be a very social guy – so how you became friends with him I'm sure I don't know. And you'll be testy while you discover just what you can and can't do now that you're blind, which wouldn't bother me if it didn't bother you so much… Does any of this sound accurate? Wait, don't answer now, because you'll say things you really mean but you'll say them in the meanest words possible in order to make _me_ the bad guy in our relationship. Well, fuck you."

While his jaw was still hanging, Liz stood up. "You know where to find me. Or where to tell your lawyers – to whom you still haven't spoken – to find me."

And she left.

* * *

**Author's Note II: **it's been brought to my attention that this site is not a fan of authors who reply to reviews inside of chapters anymore. _**Don't freak because you don't see yourself here. **Everyone who was signed in when they reviewed will be getting a reply in their e-mail._ Only **misc** wasn't signed in, so I will reply here for that one. 

**_RESPONSE TO GROUP:_** I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! There, now I won't have to write that over and over.

In the future, sign in if you can and if you want a reply. The mods here will remove stories that have replies in the body of the fic (I'm hoping that's just for replies made after this in my opinion not so brilliant ruling).

**misc** – man, you asked if I could bump a writing time of weeks down to one week. I would have truly loved to, but this is how writing goes, I guess, when there's not a deadline that threatens one's paycheck hovering on the horizon. I'm sorry!


	14. Epilogue

**Author's Note:** here it is. I'll leave the rest of what I want to say until the end.

* * *

Sands was in a bad mood.

For the last week he'd been happily ignoring the world, locked away in his tiny apartment, not caring if the windows and curtains were opened or closed because what was the point anyway? He could have gone on like that for quite a bit longer – it wasn't as if he'd been in any danger of starving, thanks to the bleeding-hearts who insisted on stopping by and stocking his fridge with more than just alcohol – but no, the boss-lady insisted on sticking her nose into his business too. And while he might ignore summons from a great number of people, Tymms was a tough old lady and would probably show up on his doorstep in combat boots if he didn't come when called.

But he didn't have to be happy about it. And he didn't have to bother with shaving or showering or any of the niceties that people who could _see_ insisted on.

"Oh, this is just very professional," was her greeting when he was shown – _Ha, ha_ – into her office. "Very mature. I'm glad to see that you're managing so well on your own, Agent Sands."

_Screw you._ "I aim to please."

There was a creak of leather as the woman made herself comfortable. She was disappointed that the agent in front of her had come to this. After all he'd been through, he was finally giving in to self-pity. She had no patience for it no matter what the Company shrinks said about how it was actually a good sign and how it meant he was coming to terms with his new life. _He's not coming to terms with anything, much less a new life,_ she thought in disgust as she eyed his lank hair, rumpled clothes, and unshaved, hollowed cheeks. "You aim to please yourself. Otherwise you would have cleaned yourself up before coming in."

"I would have shaved, but the light was bad," he deadpanned. "Didn't want to slice my throat. Think about the mess it would have made."

"They make electric razors which, when used properly, greatly decrease the risk of cutting anything while shaving," she replied, in no mood to coddle him. "Tell me, Agent, what's brought on this peerless display of the consequences of attending too many pity parties."

Sands' jaw tightened. How dare she treat him as if there was nothing wrong with him? "What's wrong? Can't bring yourself to can me? Don't like kicking a man while he's down? Strange, I thought all the training got rid of those kinds of reservations."

"Oh, if it were up to me I'd fire you on the spot. But not because you're blind. I couldn't care less about that because you've proved that it's not much of a hindrance to you when you're on a mission. What makes me want to fire you is how you're a pain in the ass and you're wasting your life."

"What life?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong…" Tymms put on a pair of glasses and opened the file folder in front of her. "…but every department in the Company – save for support services, the typing pool, and the PR staff – have approached you with offers. You could have your pick of any assignment you want. There's not a department head that wouldn't kill to have you on their staff. And if that doesn't tickle your fancy, then there's always openings for instructors at Langley. Personally I'd think you'd jump at the chance to screw with the minds of recruits and men like you are the reason our intelligence agents rarely crack under pressure."

"What's your point?" Sands asked. She hadn't told him anything he didn't already know.

"I want to know why you're sitting around on your ass, twiddling your thumbs."

"You sound like my wife."

"Thank you. I admit I didn't meet her under the best of circumstances," Tymms relished the way that Sands seemed to freeze in surprise. "But she stuck me as a… woman to be reckoned with."

_Damnit, Lizzie… _"What'd she say?"

"She was very nearly eloquent, despite the surroundings. I'll never forget the look on everyone's faces when she informed me that the CIA is inconsiderate, incompetent, and as a whole couldn't stop a five-year-old with little more than an erector set from taking over the world, though she then had the nerve to faint. I'd almost written her off as a lost cause but then I had to take into account that she'd been married to you for nearly twenty years without losing her mind, and her showing at the hearings was commendable. She redeemed herself quite well."

"Yes well, that eloquent, fainting, commendable woman told me off," Sands muttered.

"Good." Once again Tymms took satisfaction into shocking the agent into silence. "From all accounts you were quite insufferable, Sands. Did you really expect her to grin and bear it?"

"She said she didn't need me!" Sands got up out of his chair and started pacing. His fingers rubbed together as he beat down the craving for a cigarette.

"You want a clingy, indecisive woman who can't stand on her own two feet? Or one who is looking for a fairy tale ending where the handsome prince slays dragons in her name while she spends all her time safely tucked away in a bower of roses?"

Sands hated that things had come to this. Tymms as a counselor left a lot to be desired, but as long as he was humiliating himself he might as wall spill it all. "She doesn't love me."

"Why should she? You've been an ass."

"She's my wife."

"That's why the term 'ex-wife' was created, I believe."

_She's a real yuk-a-minute,_ Sands thought in disgust, missing the irony in their reversed positions. "She said she didn't want a divorce."

"Then what are you complaining about?" Tymms sighed and set her glasses aside. "You want advice? Here's my advice. Go home, take a shower, deliberate over the positions you've been offered and pick one. Once you start putting a life back together for yourself, everything else will fall into place. You're dismissed."

* * *

_One hundred, thirty-six days._ Liz stared at her calendar as she marked off several days at once. Force of habit had her counting off each day at the same time that her absence from home had her forgetting to do so for up to a week at a time. Real life had her too busy to mourn the passing of each individual sunset, yet she couldn't give up either. There was still a running tally that lurked at the back of her mind.

_It's almost been five months._ Five months since she'd last seen Sands. Five months since she'd laid everything she was willing to offer – and to accept in turn – on the line. There'd been no answer in those months. She had nothing but his absence and silence to judge how he'd taken things.

_Not well._ He'd never enjoyed being thwarted. From all Liz could tell, that hadn't changed. But she had. She was sick of sitting at home and voicing her complaints to people she didn't know and who could do nothing to resolve her frustrations. Speaking to Sands might not have done anything to save her marriage, but it may have saved her sanity. The ball was in his court now. The pressure was off her.

"Mom! We're out of computer paper!"

Well, almost all the pressure.

"Can it wait, Chris?" Both of her children came into the kitchen where she was putting away dishes. They both carried projects that needed to be typed and or printed.

"This is worth half my grade. And it's due tomorrow."

_Then you go buy the paper._ Liz sighed; it'd been a long day. "Alright. Mandy, please finish putting away the dishes for me. Chris, I need you to move the laundry around and start dinner. The store is going to be full of crazy people."

Liz's prediction had been right. But then any store was bound to be full at five on a Friday night. When she got home, she parked under the carport then circled around the front to gather the mail and the paper. Absentmindedly flicking through the envelopes, Liz walked up her front stairs and reached for the doorknob.

"It's locked."

She let out a little yelp, spilling the mail to the ground as her hand went to her chest.

"Don't _do_ that," she gasped once she'd recovered. "What are you doing here?" Keeping one eye on Sands, she bent down and gathered up her things, noticing that there were several cigarette butts on the pavement.

"That your way of informing me that you _were_ just pissed the last time you visited me?"

"No." She watched as he somehow both tensed and relaxed at her reply. "I was just wondering why you're not inside. I didn't think a locked door would be enough to stop you."

"Ordinarily not, but I can't say I was looking forward to enduring the company of a snide teenager without you there to remind me not to shoot him."

Liz laughed silently until he pulled out another cigarette. "I hope you're not planning on taking that inside."

Sands paused. "I don't believe a ban on smoking was brought up during negotiations."

"I'm the one with the moody teenager."

"Too true." He put his lighter away.

Liz watched him for a moment. The falling twilight and the isolation was dusting a sense of sobriety over their situation. "How have you been, Sheldon?"

"It's been rough. First you chewed me out and then Tymms put her foot up my ass…"

"Poor baby."

"You would have meant that once."

"If you weren't so obviously fine, I might mean it now. But out of all the things you wanted from me, pity was never one of them." Liz tugged on his hand as she led the way over to two lawn chairs that'd seen better days. "Since there's no smoke and no one screaming bloody murder, I think this is a conversation we'd best have outside."

They sat in silence for several minutes, the neighborhood passing them by. All their immediate neighbors hadn't lived here long enough to know who Sands was, but their curious glances said they'd like to. Liz watched them pass, watched as the streetlights started to flicker on, watched as Chris pulled Mandy away from a window where she was watching them. The curtains were yanked shut with considerable temper. Uncertain of how much longer they had to say all they needed, Liz opened her mouth. "I –"

"– did all the talking last time." Sands ran a hand through his hair. Earlier, he'd propped one foot up on his knee; now it jiggled impatiently. "You're not the only one here that doesn't need this marriage. Tymms bullied me into taking another job, one inside the Company and the country. Living alone isn't new to me and living in the dark isn't as hard as looks." _As frustrating, yes. But not as hard._ "I don't need a concerned wife who's going to be asking what's wrong every time I'm a little off, and I _really_ don't need a teenager who hates me and a daughter who has this fairy tale image of me."

He fell silent, and Liz was very glad that he couldn't see her. She'd always thought that if he came to her, then they'd be able to work things out. A personal – And gentle. He was being blunt but gentle, and somehow that made things ten times worse – send off was the last thing she'd been expecting.

"Oh."

"Since when do you give up so easily?" Sands demanded.

_He almost sounds offended._ "What do you mean?"

"What happened to the woman who told me that she liked being married and she'd prefer to keep the husband she had? The one who told me off? Because reacquainting myself with her was just getting interesting."

"What game are you playing now, Sheldon?"

"No game. You just have to get used to the fact that I turned into a manipulative bastard while I was gone and that on the best of days I'm going to be an ass–"

Liz reached over and pressed her fingers to his lips. "Do you mean that?"

"The part about being a bastard and an –"

"The part about me having to get used to it." Liz held her breath as she waited for an answer.

"Well I'm not giving up my apartment at Langley, but I figured I owed you something for kidnapping you. I make no promises, but if a chance is what you want –"

She interrupted him one last time, though this time with a kiss that had them both lingering.

"There'll be curious neighbors," she whispered when they parted. "I forgot to mention that alongside the rebellious teenager and the delicate ten-year-old."

"I'll make sure I'm armed."

"Just as long as no police get involved. I never want to see another bulletproof vest in my life."

"No police? Could be tricky."

Liz grinned as she leaned in for another kiss. "You'll find a way."

* * *

**Author's Note II:** well, that's it. Two years, eight months, eighteen days, 122 pages, and lots of angst on the part of the writer later, and here it is. I want to thank everyone who sent in a review. You guys really kept me going. You guys inspired the first chapter of what was supposed to be a single vignette about the family that Sands left behind. Special thanks go to Merrie and DB and SB who all provided a sounding board for me when I'd lost the plot and couldn't find another and who, in the case of SB, provided lots and lots of music to keep me going. (Eye of the Tiger, baby.)

I suppose it is time for "Neon Daisies" to take a short break. Don't despair. Neon Daisies has an alter ego named "rythmteck" who just happens to write Pirates of the Caribbean fanfic. (Long story. You can ask if you want, just be prepared.) Right now I'm reworking my very first ever fic, which was written under the "rythmteck" pseudonym, named "Inconvenient." The rewrite is called "A Different Story." You do not need to read the original to understand. As a rewrite, "ANS" is covering pretty much everything in "Inconvenient." Funny how that works, huh?

As for "Neon Daisies" me, I'm playing with a couple of different ideas. One is a PotC fic centered around post-DMC Norrington, and another is a second Secret Window fic that will be drastically different from "Fractured Secrets."

I hope to hear from you all. I have a LiveJournal, the link to which is in my profile, and of course you can always PM me. And I'm on Yahoo Instant Messenger.

Thanks for a great story!

Neon Daisies


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